Gilead
by katherine-with-a-k
Summary: In the deep midwinter Anne and Gilbert made an oath to each other, by the following summer they will break all the rules. This is a SEQUEL TO ANOTHERLEA which continues the story from Gilbert's point of view.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello there!**

 **This story spent the first 19 chapters in the main section. It wasn't until chapter 20 that things went M side, so if you're wondering why the first half seems a little tame, that's why.**

 **Gilead begins where Anotherlea left off, with Anne and Gilbert returning to the Blythe place on Christmas Eve.**

 **As always I am writing this by the seat of my pants, there is no plan, except to entertain you all. I love my Anne-girls and I always will.**

 **With heartfelt thanks to fkaj, who is the best writing partner I could ever have, to Cate who encouraged me to write this story.**

 **And to Maud of course ~ everything is hers, only this idea is mine.**

 **kwak**

 **...**

 _There is balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole._

 ** _..._**

 _It's good to love a heart_

 _Who surely understands_

 _The coming of the day_

 _And the beauty of the land_

 _The act of being sorry_

 _And the breaking of a man_

 ** _..._**

 _ **Chapter One**_

On their way home that night they don't gaze at each other, nor do they stare straight ahead. They watch their boots plunge into the snow and make a sort of game of it. First, they weave their prints together and when they get bored they make words. She starts first and he follows, mirroring every letter.

Leaping into virgin snow they each begin their G with a flourishing curve at the top, before crossing into each other's path and stomping out the tail. There's a jump into the next word, which starts with a looping L. They race through this haphazardly, and quickly leap onto the A. When they get to the end of her name, and her e and his kiss together, they pause for a moment in the skeletal orchard, dressing bare branches with clouds of their breath.

The Blythe place is just visible between the rows of trees. The door to the covered porch must be open, for lamp light spills from the house and paints a path a light on the snow. He takes this chance to look at her for as long as the light holds out: wild grey eyes peeping out from under her hat, the way the apples of her cheeks rise to meet them. Beneath her scarf she is smiling, and she rocks back and forth on her feet.

'Does he now?' says Gilbert, his snow-dusted boots touching hers.

Anne tosses her knapsack to the ground, and rocks toward him again. Her nose brushes over his chin and her chest fills with a hot hard breath as she waits to see what he'll do. She doesn't wait long; in the next moment he grabs her arms and drives her into the trunk behind her.

Grey eyes darken with excitement and she shakes one arm free, flinging the glove from his hand before plunging his thumb into her mouth. His fingers cup her jaw; stroke the downy red hair at her nape. Then he draws his glistening thumb down her chin, hips pinning her to the tree.

'Wait,' Anne says, loosening her cloak, 'I want to feel you,' and shoves her mittens into her pocket before unbuttoning his coat. 'Thank goodness for the light,' she murmurs, then suddenly she frowns. She looks up to see Gilbert frowning too, and he looks in the direction of his house.

'That light –' Anne begins.

'Something's wrong –' Gilbert says, and yanks hard on her hand.

There is no way his mother would leave the door wide open for more than a minute, not on a cold winter's night. They sprint toward the Blythe place, Anne lagging behind. Usually she can match his pace, sometimes even best him, but a nagging fear has Gilbert now and it pounds through his limbs and works them like pistons.

'Let me go –' Anne gasps, 'you'll run faster without me!'

Gilbert grips her harder still. Her arm feels like it must leave its socket by the time they reach the covered porch. Bright light bleeds from the house, and there near an upturned tin bath, is the crumpled figure of his mother lying face down in the snow.

Gilbert falls on his knees and grabs his mother's hand.

'Ma – dear God, what happened!'

Ro Blythe lifts her head. Despite the cold her face gleams with sweat and there is blood in the corner of her mouth.

'Gilbert – Anne, thank the Lord you're both safe.'

'Can you move, are you hurt, what has happened, Ma _please?'_

Ro catches Anne's eye. 'A-Anne dear,' she stammers, 'could you go inside and fetch me a pail – No!' Her eyes widen and she squeezes Gilbert's fingers. 'Best you go in; there should be one in the kitchen. Be careful!' she calls after him, as he hastens into the house.

'Mrs Blythe,' says Anne, bending close. 'Where's the girl who was staying here, the girl you took in – what was her name – Margaret?'

Her question goes unanswered. Gilbert returns with the pail and is instructed to fill it with snow. Ro gets onto her knees, placing her weight on one hand, while the other is held out in front of her.

'Don't touch it!' Ro pleads, when Anne attempts to brush the snow away. She takes a sharp breath as the pain in her hand hits anew. 'I've been burned,' she tells them, 'it was Margaret…'

Gilbert's body goes rigid; her words piercing him clean through.

'Where is she?' he utters, rising slowly to his feet.

'She fled – Gilbert, please,' his mother begs, 'just help me get inside.'

It's long after midnight when the lights at the Blythes go out. Before that they have a houseful; the Reverend, the doctor and a constable provide what help they can. The latter is stationed five miles away in White Sands. Gilbert offered to fetch him but Ro wanted him close, so he raised the neighbours north and west to their property, and asked them to go in his stead. Sam Gillis went to the police station, George Fletcher to Dr Spencer, and Adam Wright to Charlottetown where John Blythe was visiting his cousin.

'It's a blessing she didn't come to us this year,' says Ro, weakly.

'It's always a blessing,' says Gilbert.

He smooths her dark hair over her pillow and waits for the reprimand; harridan or no, his mother would never allow him to sass an elder like that. It doesn't come. Instead she makes a grimace then gives into the pull of the laudanum Dr Spencer dosed her with.

'I'm going to fetch Anne,' he tells her, though he knows she is already sleeping. 'Don't worry, I'll come right back and make up a bed on the floor.'

He finds Anne in the kitchen working brick dust and vinegar into a pot in order to get it clean. Ro had used it to make Christmas candies with Margaret, a girl about Anne's age who had been thrown out of home when she could no longer hide her pregnancy. While the syrup bubbled away Margaret had strayed into the room Anne was staying in and discovered a keepsake from Davy Rossi. A moment later she appeared in the kitchen demanding to know where the scrawny redheaded girl had got to.

Ro thought it wise not to answer that, though she would certainly be seeking one from Davy the next chance she got. She left the kitchen to empty Margaret's bath and barely had time to protect her face from the boiling sugar that was flung at her. Three fingers had been burned to the bone; though Ro had been less worried about that than she was for Anne's safety. She made Gilbert promise not to let her out of his sight.

He watches Anne carefully dry the pot; the wild look she wore mere hours ago replaced with one of quiet reflection. Silently they go to his room, then the spare room, and remove the quilts and pillows from the beds.

'I'll sleep here,' Anne whispers from the foot of Mrs Blythe's bed. 'You sleep there,' and she points to Mr Blythe's side.

'We're both sleeping here,' Gilbert says, and pulls her close. 'At least until Margaret is found.'

'Then blow out the lamp,' Anne says softly.

He lies down on the comforter he had spread on the floor and listens to Anne unfasten her buckle, her blouse, her corset, and finally the buttons of her itchy wool trousers. She had worn them for their hike this evening, hidden under her long wool cloak. Now every man of consequence on this part of the Island had seen her in them – though only the constable looked surprised.

'Gil?' she whispers into the dark.

'Here,' he says, his hand outstretched.

She is kneeling, trying to feel her way, and his fingers brush over her breast.

'Sorry –' he mutters, and pulls away.

Anne lifts the blankets and slips in next to him, her slim body trembling.

'Are you cold,' he asks, 'should I make up the fire in here?'

'I'll warm up in a minute,' she murmurs, and then, 'how strange. I'm colder now than I was in our snow cave.'

Something about that memory makes him turn toward her. He takes her face in his hands the way he did when they lay on his great-grandmother's blanket.

'I want to say something,' he says, 'but I don't know if I should.'

'Is this about Margaret?' Anne cuts in. 'Just because she knows Davy it doesn't necessarily follow that he is the father –'

Gilbert's not so sure about that, but now's not the time to say so.

'It's not that. It's – I don't know if I can explain, but when we were in the orchard and the light came from the door… Anne, I'd seen that light before.'

'I don't understand –'

'I have these dreams where I'm shrouded in darkness and a light comes from an open door. Sometimes I'm filled with such peace when it happens... other times it scares the tar out of me.'

'Are you afraid now, are you afraid to go to sleep?'

Gilbert doesn't move his head nor say a word; his hand has found the satin ties on the collar of Anne's chemise and he rubs the silky ribbons over the pad of his thumb.

'Gil?'

'I'm thinking about it.'

He isn't, he's fighting the impulse to pick her up in his arms, lay her on his bed and take refuge in her body. Such a feeling is throbbing in his gut, matched only by the notion in his head, that this is the one thing in all the world that will quiet all his fears. But it won't end them. He's smart enough to know that. The moment it's over he'll have fresh fears to face. And Gilbert isn't one for making it worse. All he's ever wanted is to make things better. Help. Fix. Solve. Heal.

It all seems possible – except the last one. He had seen his mother's hand and she would never use it again. Her right hand, he realises, and feels anger rise inside him.

I can do this, he says to himself. I can set all this to rights. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this…

The words pulse inside him till that throb starts again, and he lies on his back and shuts his eyes tight.

I can do this

I can do this

I can do this

I can do this…

If Anne had shifted her head to his chest she would have heard it sound from his heart.

 **...**

 _* first lyric from traditional Spiritual, There is Balm in Gilead_

 _* second lyric from Seasons Change by New Zealand songwriter, Nadia Reid_

 _* the music for this story (because you know I can't write until I find the music) is Thanksgiving Waltz performed by Jay Ungar and Molly Mason._


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two**_

Gilbert wakes to the knock of a cold leather boot against his shoulder. There's a face beyond the lantern-light that he cannot make out and he sits up with a jolt. Anne is no longer next to him. Her long, tapered foot has slipped out from the quilt on his parents' bed, and her hand is tangled in his mother's dark hair. She must have heard her calling for comfort in the night, and he had slept right through it.

'Gil – up.'

A man's voice, not his father's – was it Adam Wright's? Gilbert finds him in the kitchen, jamming wood into belly of the iron stove.

'Key's on the table,' he says, without turning around.

It is supposed to hang from the hook in the hall. Instead Gilbert pockets it, then busies himself with the coffee bean grinder while Adam unfastens his coat. He has a face like etched rock and hair the colour of pea-soup fog. If there's any light about him it comes from his startling white teeth, but he's in no mood to smile just yet. He got his sleigh within sixteen miles of Charlottetown and had to turn back at Banion's river. Running ice had knocked the bridge there clean away.

They talk on this while the water boils, then the best way to reach John Blythe. Finally, they settle on a telegram. Though John won't get it till the 26th, the post office is closed today.

'Happy Christmas, Mr Wright,' says Gilbert, settling Adam's coffee on the table.

'And to you, Gil.'

He slips off his sheepskin earflap cap and shakes it over the stove, snowflakes melting with a hiss. Gilbert flinches as he hears this, then disguises it with a yawn. Not that yawning's much better.

Adam Wright hasn't slept at all, nor is he likely to. Church service starts in three hours and his wife will be wanting him bathed and shaved before that. He rubs his hand over his bristly jaw, grim at the thought of wearing a stiff white collar; his wife nudging him to sing when he would rather sling his feet up on the pew in front of him and catch a quiet snooze. He takes a slug of coffee and pulls himself to his feet.

'Anne Shirley still here, I see.'

'Yessir,' says Gilbert, staring into his mug. 'Miss Cuth – sorry, Mrs Rossi – is expecting Anne this morning. She's joining her and Mr Rossi and the twins at church.'

He sits forward in his chair, one leg jiggling restlessly.

'I don't like it. Margaret could be hiding at Green Gables right this minute, waiting for Anne to show herself. If she could hurt Ma like that –'

'If Martin Rossi can tame Marilla he can handle a pregnant girl,' says Adam.

He rubs his jaw again and gives Gilbert a long hard stare. The boy's a handsome buck just like his Pa, except in one regard: everything came too easy to him – specially attention of the female kind.

'You sure Davy Rossi's responsible? Don't see how he could be when he's been training with the Navy. Constable said she came from White Sands. Weren't you teaching there?'

The coffee turns to sludge in Gilbert's throat, and he pounds the mug on the table.

'I would _never_ dishonour a girl like that!'

Adam's hand twitches. He would have boxed his sons' ears for daring to speak so bold. That's what comes of having one child instead a good-sized brood. Children like that never learn their place. Adam has four boys. His eldest, Fred, is a great chum of Gil's, and was caught with his pants down last winter in the presence of the Barry's precious Diana. Adam is well acquainted with the appetites of youth, and he knows a guilty conscience when he sees one. Why would Gilbert respond with such heat unless he was also trying to convince himself? The boy was no liar however; all Avonlea could vouch for that. No coward either, given the way he stepped up to the rock face that was Adam Wright and planted his hands on his hips.

'Set down, young'un,' Adam says, 'I have a right to ask what I did and you know it.'

Five deep lines appear on his forehead as he raises his eyebrows and gestures to the doorway. Gilbert turns to see Anne standing in the hall, a scarlet quilt wrapped high round her shoulders, her pointed chin jutting out.

'I wondered what the noise was – _two_ roosters crowing me up this morning,' she says, clearing away their half-drunk mugs and emptying them into the slop bucket. 'You should get home, Mr Wright, you don't want to keep your family waiting.'

Anne gives him her best schoolmarmish look; if she wore spectacles she would have peered over them. Gilbert can't help smirking, that is until she turns on him.

'And _you,_ Gilbert Blythe, you should be in the stone cottage looking up remedies for your mother. The laudanum won't last forever. We need rosehips and balm, lots of balm, if we want to save her hand.'

Adam Wright's not one for changing his mind but he quickly revises his opinion now. A guilty conscience will be the least of Gil's battles if this is the girl he wants to win. He gives him an encouraging slap on the back then settles his cap on his head.

'We'll talk more after service. I'm sure we'll know more by then. Nothin' spreads news – nor gossip come to that – like comin' together for church.'

'I'm obliged to you, sir.'

Adam waves his thanks away.

'I'll send one of my boys to the post office tomorrow; don't want you leaving your Ma. Happy Christmas, Anne,' he says, tugging his cap. 'Tell Marilla I'll come by after supper this evening, I'm sure she'll have questions. Better make sure young Davy's there, too. And if he won't stay then _make_ him.'

Anne pictures her stepbrother in his scarlet jacket and pillbox hat. She still bears his finger-marks when he flung her round the parlour as they danced at the wedding three nights ago.

'How am I to manage that?' she asks, clutching her quilt to her chest.

Adam watches Gilbert tugging on his boots for the short walk to the stone cottage.

'I'm sure you can handle him,' he says.

The cottage lies east of the orchard at the back of the Blythe place. It was said to be the first dwelling built in Avonlea, made from blocks of red sandstone that had been cut from the eastern shores. This was the work of Ro's grandfather, Saul Gillaley, and it was on these shores that he first met his wife.

He was trading sugar for fox furs, and asked the hunter about the woman with unbound hair sweeping the campsite with a juniper switch. What the hunter told him was that she was taking care of the wigwam while the others were away.

What he said was, 'Nespe.'

She was the reason Saul built a house of stone; it was the only way he could see her. Other settlers made their homes from timber; building from rock with your own two hands was a slow process that demanded skill, patience, fortitude and the ability to stand much mocking. The shore people liked what they saw. When Saul came for the last piece of sandstone – a massive slab that needed an ox to drag it – Nespe went with him, her unbound hair flying out behind her.

When Gilbert's father married his neighbour's youngest daughter, she came with ten acres of orchard and the crumbling cottage. What Ro got was a mixed crop farm, and a neat little house with a pretty latticed porch and a new picket fence.

No one had lived in the stone cottage for a generation. It was too small to hold a growing family and had become a refuge for farm equipment and nests of birds and mice. Ro began restoring it as a way to tame her grief. In the weeks after her daughter drowned she learned that if she exhausted herself she did not have strength for tears. Or dreams of little Lottie in her big blue bows sinking into the dark weeds of Barry's pond.

John had been in Alberta then, Gilbert by his side. He left an observant boy of ten with a father wracked with consumption and a mother wracked with guilt. He returned three years later with an easy knowledge of knives and guns, the ballads of woodsmen, and bawdy songs from the garrison. He could skin a rabbit in eight seconds; gut it in three. While it was roasting he prized apart their eyeballs and dissected the ticks on their pelts. He wasn't fit for a prim grey schoolhouse in Avonlea. Leastways not one run by a Master whose idea of teaching was to keep his pupils writing out sums and copying poems while he wooed the sixteen-year old at the back of the class. It looked like a sweaty business. All that swooning, fanning, teetering, blushing. And for what – the chance to share a bench with her during geometry lesson?

Young Gilbert was having none of that. He mocked the girls without mercy and what's more was rewarded. Not only with tossed braids and indignant looks, but jam tarts, coloured pencils, marbles, spruce chews, gruesome tales cut from their mama's magazines, and their papa's best fishing hooks. Now that was worth a fellow's time – and there was a lot of it to fill. He could finish a morning's worth of arithmetic problems in an hour; commit an ode to memory while he strolled to the outhouse. He wouldn't have minded coaching others along but the Master demanded silence from his pupils.

What he got was a low hum, interspersed with shrieks, slaps and the singing of crickets as they raced between the desks. The cane's whistle was a diverting sound, Susie's Gillis' throaty giggle, Ephraim White's snore. The best sound of all was the bell signalling the end of the day. Gilbert couldn't wait to leave.

Anne Shirley changed his mind about that. With her witchy looks and strange opinions and singular ability for bearing grudges, Gilbert couldn't make her out. It was the first time he had come to a problem that he couldn't get around or work through. Apologies didn't work, nor sentimental gestures. He tried roping in her bosom friend, fraternising with her enemy, ignoring her, singling her out. The only thing that got any result was competing with her. At first, he wanted to win for pride's sake, for what thirteen-year old boy could stand to lose to an eleven-year old girl? He was eighteen before he figured out something she hadn't: that none of what they ended up achieving – topping the Entrance, winning medals at Queens – would have been possible without the other. She needed him, he was certain of it. And he was sure as the sun that he needed her.

The problem was that needing a person came far too close to love, and there was no way Gilbert could afford to do that. To exchange long conversations about the nature of language, the efficacy of dandelion roots, the perfection of the golden ratio for swooning, fanning, teetering, blushing was nonsensical to him. No matter how he lay out the problem it refused to add up.

It took him a year to comprehend that what he was trying to solve wasn't arithmetic; it was geometry. He and Anne didn't add up. They fit together.

His hands tremble as he unlocks the cottage, and he rests his forehead on the blue painted door. He is remembering last night when he lay with Anne on Nespe's blanket in their little house of snow. Their lanterns stood outside and had long since burned out; the fire in the doorway had died. He had unbuttoned his coat and she loosened her cloak and pressed against his chest; her leg weaving around his, the way she did when they kissed at the stream. He was acutely aware of what wasn't between them; her thick woollen skirts, her petticoats, her bustle cage. The memory of her unfastening the buttons of her trousers played over in his mind, and he had checked to see if they were still unfastened. They were. His hands plucked her blouse from the waistband and roamed over her the soft silk of her corset, finding and then squeezing the tips of her breasts as they slipped from the collar of her chemise.

'Kiss them,' she said, 'kiss them the way you kissed my thumb.'

And Gilbert had moaned and pushed her sweater and blouse up round her throat, while his hands slid under her waistband. Her thighs widened, her hips rose, then suddenly she was still as still.

'What is it?' he had said to her.

'I want to savour every moment,' she told him. 'I want to remember this.'

He hadn't asked what _this_ meant. Once the word was said they would have all but admitted what they were doing and have to stop. And he was going to, of course he was. But not yet. Not when she was returning to Green Gables tomorrow, and leaving for Charlottetown in a few short days. She was set to become a journalist; he was six months into seven years at Redmond College. They had built a snow cave in memory of their night by the frozen stream, and exchanged Christmas presents – they had both given knives. He had this idea they could make blood oaths to each other and they both made cuts in their thumbs. It was one of those strange, almost mystical notions that only made sense when he was with Anne.

Then the fire went out. He offered her the heat of his body. What he missed was the light.

'I want to see you,' he said.

'We could make another fire,' she said.

Between them they decided to it was time to head back, and when they reached the orchard there was light all around. Light that fell on her face as she took his cut thumb in her mouth and he thought he would never make it to the cottage…

That's where they were heading: his mother's cottage. What had he been thinking – what _is_ he thinking? He is supposed to be looking up remedies for badly burned skin not indulging in fancies about Anne.

He returns the key to the hollow beneath the huge stone slab at the entrance to the door. Cold seeps into his bones as he enters and he looks at the empty fireplace, longingly. The rug by the bookcase has been pulled back revealing the old trapdoor. That would have been the constable. He had asked about any places Margaret might hide. Ro tried to stop him, wary of some lawman poking around in her potions and herbs, so the Reverend offered to tag along. He must have waited outside however, for Mr Allan was the sort who put things back where he found them.

Gilbert kicks the rug into place, then reaches for the great book that lies on the topmost shelf. Ignoring the index, he heads straight for the L section. Anne mentioned rosehips and balm but his mother's wounds need more lavender first. They had used up every drop of that oil last night, and he seeks out the dried flower heads that hang from the beams and sets up the burner. He would not have enough time to leave them to sit in the oil, so it will require a gentle heat. It's this he needs the book for, in order to know how to warm it just so. Too little heat and he would not extract enough of the properties required to soothe and calm the skin. Too much heat and it would be ruined.

He takes a safety match from its box and strikes it hard, then touches it to the wick of the burner. A fine blue flame lights up his palm as he shelters it from the icy draft that comes in under the window.

Gripping the heavy stone pestle, he pounds the flower heads inside the mortar. The room fills with the smell of spirits and herbs. His hands finally stop trembling.

 **…**

 _* I got the name Nespe from the website 20 000 Names from around the World. It's what's called holophrastic, where a single word (in this case, Nespe) stands in for a sentence (which is, staying behind to mind the wigwam) in Mi'qmaq._


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter Three**_

Anne's head pops up and bells ring out; church service is about to begin. Gilbert can't believe three hours have passed, yet Anne's appearance confirms it. Though the trapdoor obscures most of her, her face tells him everything. She has a light dusting of powder over her freckles and is wearing the little hat his mother planned to give her for Christmas. It looks like a something a confectioner might make. A brown velvet cap with twists of ribbon in green, cream, copper, and violet – though he would say it was closer to heliotrope.

Anne is all ready to ask him what is taking him so long, until she spies the look on his face. Her cheeks go pink beneath the powder; her hand goes to her hat.

'Don't you like it?'

Gilbert dips his hands in a basin of water and wipes them on his mother's apron.

'Yes,' he says, impishly, 'it brings out the colour of your hair.'

'You mean _red_ ,' Anne says, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

'It's a shame to confine such a colour to one word,' says Gilbert.

He kneels down by the hatch Anne is standing in, and teases out the curl she had hidden away, twirling it round his finger.

'So many shades in one little strand… gold, amber, rose, ca –'

'If you say carrot –'

'Calendula. I was going to say calendula.'

'So am I, as it happens. Your mother asked me to fetch some calendula cream – and _you.'_

Gilbert drops Anne's hair reluctantly and goes to the tall dresser next to the fireplace and seeks out a pot.

'How is she this morning?' he says, collecting the lavender oil from the desk.

'I'm not sure,' Anne admits. 'At first I thought she was putting on a brave face, but I'm beginning to think the burn is worse than we thought. Her palm is still causing her a lot of pain, but her fingers… I don't think she has any sensation there at all.'

Gilbert keeps his back to Anne, tidying away a desk that does not need tidying – even the smallest calyx bud has been collected and squared away. He knew the burn was bad, his mother knew it too, or she would not be asking for an antiseptic agent. She wanted to prevent putrefaction because her fingers could not be saved.

He doesn't ask Anne her opinion, however, a more obvious question has sprung up.

'What made you come to the cottage by tunnel?'

'Because you locked us inside.'

Anne's grin is a teasing one, but there is tenderness too. Of course he would be preoccupied. It is a terrible thing watching someone you love suffer. Marilla endured agonising headaches for years and ended up losing her sight. True to the whims of Providence, however, she gained something wonderful too: a goodhearted husband who was devoted to her. What could Ro Blythe possibly gain, when it was a person, not Providence, who had carelessly taken so much away?

The bells ring out again. Service would be starting in one minute. It isn't far; the graveyard borders the Blythe property and the church lies on the other side. Still, it wouldn't do to be late. If Marilla and Martin are there they will have heard all about the incident by now and be looking for her arrival.

'Gil, I've got to go.'

Anne ducks her head and disappears down the narrow tunnel that runs between the cottage and the house. Gilbert throws off his apron and follows, his pockets clinking with glass and crocks. He has no lamp, and can scarcely make out the light Anne carries. He can smell her though: the sharp flavour of rosemary, the papery tang of witch hazel, and the musk-salt scent of her body.

When she gets to the trapdoor in the kitchen she lifts the hatch and turns. One knee is on the kitchen floor when she feels Gilbert's hands clasp her thighs. He presses his face into her skirts. Anne gasps with pleasure and surprise.

'What are you doing?' she whispers to the curly top of his head.

'Taking a keepsake,' is his muffled reply. He breathes her in and sighs. 'Ah Anne… you smell of summer.'

'Funny boy – oh your _mother!'_ she hisses, pushing him down. 'H-hello, Mrs Blythe, I passed on your message. Gilbert said he was coming directly.'

'Thank you, dear,' says Ro. 'Best get yourself to church. Your new hat looks delightful on you. What was Gilbert's opinion?'

Ro is answered by a swift thud of her son's head striking the entrance of the tunnel.

'Hmmm, well… yes –' Anne blurts, 'I must go,' and leaps out awkwardly, pausing to kiss Mrs Blythe's cheek. 'I'll call on you before I leave for Charlottetown. We'll all call. Marilla, Martin, Dora certainly, Davy perhaps, and bring that extra beeswax you wanted. Happy Christmas, Mrs Blythe, and thank you – thank you – thank you for inviting me stay!'

Anne scurries to the backdoor and tries to work the handle. Mrs Blythe stands over the hatch and extends her left hand slowly.

'Gilbert Blythe,' she says, and taps her foot, 'I believe Anne requires the key.'

...

When the bells ring out two hours later Ro grabs her cloak from her closet.

'Button me up, old thing,' she calls from her bedroom, 'I can't manage with this bandage.'

Gilbert appears from the room opposite, a long box of matches in his hand.

'Where are you off to, I thought you said to warm the parlour for the company bound to call after church?'

'I decided I cannot face them. I know it's unchristian, I know they'll be concerned. But not today, Gilbert, not today.'

Gilbert looks away from the silver fastenings of his mother's cloak and glances at her face. The sickly, ashen look she had earlier is gone. Ro had blamed this on the laudanum, not on her hand, and fumed at being given such a treatment – but it was only half meant. Had her husband been by her side last night she might have managed the pain a little better. He is still in Charlottetown with Mary Maria, who vowed never to visit Avonlea again after Ro poisoned her with some nasty concoction. Naturally, Ro had protested. If Mary Maria insisted on gorging herself on the fatty ends of roasted meat she could hardly blame a cup of peppermint tea (though Ro's additional dollop of Ipecac syrup might have had something to do with it.) John took his wife's part at first, but as the year wore on he became worn down with his cousin's letters complaining of the sad and lonely Christmas she would have to look forward to. She will be livid when the telegram arrives advising John's early return. He was originally due on New Year's Eve, and promised to be laden with the sorts of gifts that could only be bought in Charlottetown.

His wife was getting a new Willow Ware bowl to replace the one Dora chipped. Ro took her on as an apprentice last summer. She's a capable girl, and even has what Ro called 'a feel' for herbs. Nevertheless, Dora's heart isn't in it. She is far better suited to conventional work, a haberdasher's say, or domestic service, though in truth, it's her own home she longs to manage. Ro wonders how long it will be before she loses Dora Rossi to marriage. Fortunately, she does not have the same question about her stepsister. Now, there is a girl who cannot be tied down.

'I like seeing you smile,' says Gilbert, tucking a scarf round his mother's neck.

'I was thinking about our Anne.'

'Oh?' Gilbert utters, and bends to unbutton his newly polished boots.

He is decked out in his Christmas best: grey serge suit, blue silk tie – though not his high stiff collar. That went unaccountably missing this morning. Or was more likely stuffed into the bottom of his trunk, never to be seen until his return to Redmond in two weeks' time.

He kicks off his boots and slips into his work ones, the soft knee-length leather hugging his calves like a second skin.

'So,' he says, standing up, 'where are we off to?'

Gilbert already knows the answer to that, and jokes they ought to use the tunnel, then anyone turning up after service could not trace their tracks through the snow.

He needn't worry. None of those good people will dare venture as far as the cottage this morning. Not because they are afraid of the place; because no one in Avonlea wants to admit it exists. Dr Spencer was all very well, and Dr Blair in his turn. But those men were for eyestrains and broken arms and measles. A body went to Ro Blythe for more _delicate_ matters: the itchy mites that sprang up round the nethers, or when a fellow's maypole refused to stand up. Others wanted to know how to get back one's chastity, or rid themselves of peculiar maladies: gamey, cheesy, fishy odours, amorous bedmates, or frigid ones; the wart that looked like a third nipple, the nipple that looked like a wart. Then there were the babies, so many babies; the accidental and the longed for; the milk that wouldn't come when needed and wouldn't stop when it was not…

Ro Blythe is party to all their secrets and if she is loved it because she never alluded to any of it, not even to press her advantage. Every churchgoer making their way to the Blythe place now did so out of true concern – and a satisfying conclusion to the tales being told about Murderous Margaret, of course!

That mystery is resolved just a few hours later with the arrival of Fred Wright and one of his brothers tapping on the pane of the cottage window. They had gone down after Christmas dinner to check on their muskrat traps and found Margaret at the bottom of a ravine with a broken ankle, huddled in the tattered coat their Granny used to dress their old scarecrow.

'She must've slept in our barn, she coulda killed us in our sleep!' Laurie squawks.

Fred rolls his eyes. As if a girl could end him – conveniently forgetting Diana Barry nearly did just that.

'I was glad I had my old boots on. Ma keeps needling me to break in my new ones, but you know how they squeak.'

Ro rolls her eyes this time; Gilbert simply nods.

'Then what happened?'

'Well I was mindful of sending down loads of snow with every step I took, so I signalled this runt –' and he scruffs Laurie's hair, 'to get in close –'

'I thought it was a bunch of old rags!'

'Button it,' Fred barks at his brother, 'who's tellin' this? So, I sent Laurie down to those boulders by the river bottom, in order to get a good look at her face. She looked just like the policeman said she did, when he made his announcement before service this morning. Said folks should be on the lookout –'

'He was there?' Ro splutters. 'At church? The poor girl; to be hunted like that, and on Christmas day!'

'Beg your pardon, Mrs Blythe,' Fred says, carefully, 'but she brought it on herself.'

'That Margaret is a She-Devil – ow!' Laurie yelps, as Fred pinches his ear. 'Well she is. Mrs Harmon Andrews says so.'

'You've been told not to say such things, specially on the Lord's birthday. Now where was I?'

'Laurie was hiding behind some rocks,' Gilbert urges.

'Then I sent out one of my whistles and he came back to tell me what he saw, her features, her size, how her foot stuck straight out. I knew then she must have broke it. There was no other reason for her to be sittin' like that.'

'Like what,' Ro demands, 'how did she look?'

Fred gives his little brother a nod.

'Oh, so _now_ I can say my piece,' says Laurie.

He settles on the sofa on the other side of the fireplace and slowly clears his throat.

'As I recollect she looked sorta bored to me.'

'Where is she now – can I see her?' Ro asks, looking about for her cloak.

Gilbert places himself in front of the door.

'Ma, no. The constable will have her now – what was his name, Mackerson?'

'That wasn't it,' Fred cuts in, 'It was someone new. Sergeant Swan I think he was.'

'He had the honkingest moustache. A real twirler!' Laurie adds, his eyes wide with the memory of it.

Fred brings a finger to the bit of fuzz sprouting under his nose.

'It was impressive, I grant you. But he's your no-nonsense type for all that. The sergeant's sure to pay you a visit, Mrs Blythe, tell you just what happened.'

'He had better,' Ro says, wrapping her cloak around her.

She catches her bandaged hand as she does so and her face goes grey once more.

'Ma,' Gilbert pleads with her, 'you need to sit down.'

Ro doesn't need telling, she slumps down next to Laurie, who looks guiltily at Gilbert.

'We never meant to upset your mama, did we, Fred? We just wanted to let her know she was safe. And Anne too. And Davy Rossi. We're heading over there next, aren't we, Fred, we're going to Green Gables?'

Gilbert would dearly love to go with them; it's on the tip of his tongue to ask. He knows his mother is sure to agree, but he can't leave her alone. He can't.

'Then you best be going,' he says, soberly.

His hands ball into fists as that urgent feeling pumps through him again. Every man was doing what he could, while he was stuck at home. He knows he must do what is expected of him, and act in his father's stead. He just wanted Pa back, that was all, so that he might do his part.

The helpless feeling gets worse before it gets better. Fred's grandmother and Mrs Gillis come by after supper, aware that Ro is alone with her son and will need help preparing for bed.

Gilbert sits in the dining room attempting to work on a paper, his thoughts punctuated by the sound of soft groans as Ro is helped into her nightgown. She had refused to show Gilbert the least sign of pain. It made him feel proud to have such a mother. But it was pride tinged with shame, for she still believed he needed protecting. He was twenty years old, a head taller than she was. None of this made him a man in her eyes.

Luella Gillis bustles into the room, the chipped basin in her hands.

'She's asking for you, Gilbert dear – oh you haven't touched your Christmas cake. Aren't you hungry, great big boy like yourself?'

For a moment Gilbert thinks she might stuff a slice in his mouth, and he stands abruptly and shifts away from the table. This only encourages Luella.

'What's that you're working on?' she continues, eyeing a diagram he has sketched. 'Fructi – fructi –'

'Fructificatio. It means – well it means…'

'Something fruity, I expect,' she guesses, beaming up at him.

Ooh, he was the spit of John Blythe, though perhaps not quite so meaty… And she pictures John's great strapping thighs, his thick head of hair – and his chest! It still outsized his belly when he must be coming up sixty. Not like her Sam, these days he was paunchier than she was. Lucky old Ro… Luella thinks, then quickly remembers herself. Ro Blythe wasn't lucky at all. Poor Ro would never thread a needle again!

'Don't dawdle, dear. Your mother is very tired this evening. At least Fred caught that little vixen, that'll be a comfort to you.'

Gilbert finds his mother sleeping. Granny Giraud is not far behind, perched in the rocker she had taken from the covered porch, knitting needles limp in her blue-veined hands.

'She's insisting on staying,' Luella says in mock whisper, 'to dress Ro in the morning. Save her coming back tomorrow.'

Gilbert's hazel eyes light up.

'Of course, Mrs Gillis, that's a very kind offer. Would you like me to walk you home now?' he adds, knowing this to be the surest way to get a Gillis woman out the door.

Ten minutes later he has delivered Luella to her porch-step, and waves her goodbye before she has time to fetch her youngest daughter. Luella is not the sort squander a chance at matchmaking, and while Ruby has her eye on Davy Rossi, nothing's strictly settled yet.

Gilbert ponders Davy's connection to Margaret. Anne isn't the only one to think she had to be mistaken, Mrs Gillis thinks so too. But they have reasons not to believe it; Davy is a good prospect for Ruby, and the missing piece in Anne's new family. Gilbert had known him long before that. Knew him when he was thieving runaway who hid in a cave in the cliffs at White Sands. Back then he liked to make Gilbert blush with tales of his mighty exploits: said he lost his innocence when he was twelve and fathered five brats by the age of fifteen. Gilbert laughed it off at the time; all the same he had to admit there was an uncomfortable ring of truth to his boasts. Gilbert's mother frequently observed that orphans and strays often began their families when they were little more than children themselves. And she would know, she had delivered her share of them.

He looks over his shoulder. Light shines from the parlour window and the chimney sends up a curl of smoke.

There is no way Granny Giraud will leave now, he thinks, as a sharp breeze whips at his back.

He digs his hands into his pockets and tells himself Ma will be fine. Then squaring his shoulders against the wind, Gilbert walks on to Green Gables.

 **…**

* _Ipecac is the famous expectorant Anne gave Minnie May to make her vomit when she had croup_

* _Fructificatio is a Latin term to define the reproductive organs of a plant_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter four**_

There's a waxing gibbous moon tonight. By its milky light, Gilbert can make out three sets of boot-prints heading up the lane to Green Gables and two sets coming back. A child made the small ones; if their tiny size didn't give them away, their pattern surely did. Made of skips, dashes, and some sudden skidding halts – brought about by the makers of those larger prints.

The deeper treads belong to Adam Wright. The shallow ones to Fred. He has what his mother calls a compact physique and barely reaches his father's shoulder though he is coming up eighteen. His middle brothers are beanpoles; the youngest, Laurie, takes after Fred, and has finally grown a pair of legs long enough to keep up with him. He follows his eldest brother everywhere, but the absence of Fred's nimble tracks heading back down the lane means he must have eluded Laurie at some point. It doesn't take a genius to figure out where he went. Orchard Slope lies beyond the woods that grow behind Green Gables, and in that house is Diana.

Did Diana's mother slam the door in Fred's face or did she invite him in? Fred Wright is something of a hero now, but that doesn't change the fact that he is also a paltry farm boy. Ebba Barry expects a lot better for her eldest daughter, despite marrying a farmer herself. George Barry comes from money – and his spinster Aunt has most of it. Diana lives with her during term time. She is training to be a teacher at Queens and is driven by coach to class each day, and dressed in the chicest and best. It worries Fred a little, keeping Diana in such comfort when he finally takes her for his wife. It worries his folks even more that the thoroughly pampered Barry girl will be useless on a farm. Not that such a union is likely. Diana has two years at Queens to get through first. No, the Wrights decided long ago to bide their time and say nothing. It is Ebba's constant meddling that fans their children's foolish flame. If she simply stopped inventing ways to keep them apart, their courtship would fizzle out like a halfpenny-rocket.

The gate to Green Gables swings shut with a click, but Gilbert does not head for the house. Long shadows beckon from the east of the property, cast by the branches of a cherry tree. Anne calls her Snow Queen, for the voluptuous blossom she wears come springtime. In winter, she is stark and black, her branches like a thicket of thorns.

Gilbert clambers up to the topmost bough and looks out for Diana's light. Her window is suspiciously dim for nine o'clock on Christmas night. Anne's blazes, her curtains wide open, and he throws a frosty bit of bark at her pane.

'She's not there,' a voice calls up to him.

Gilbert peers down through the branches. He can't see who is speaking to him, but he knows the smell; like burnt toast and coffee grounds wrapped in cedar shavings.

'Evening Davy,' says Gilbert, coolly, and drops twelve feet to the ground.

Davy takes another drag then throws the cigarette at his feet.

'Marilla kick you out?' Gilbert asks him, grinding it under his heel.

Davy cocks his head and grunts.

'She'll kick you out too when she finds you sneakin' in through Anne's window.'

'Her light was on.'

'Oh,' Davy shrugs, 'that was me.' He lets the implication of that sink in, before tacking on a flimsy explanation. 'I was lookin' for a box of matches.'

'You can have mine,' says Gilbert, swallowing hard.

He tosses him the box in his pocket, Davy tosses it right back.

'Ever the generous one,' he says, and turning his back on Gilbert he saunters toward the back of the house.

Gilbert follows, noticing a folded sack on the kitchen step, which Davy sits on, after carefully parting the tails of his scarlet jacket. He rolls another cigarette, then draws a match against the sole of his boot; a yellow flame lighting up his face before he flings it into the water butt.

There's nothing particularly striking about Davy's features; a gap between his teeth, a nose that had once been broken, and deep-set blue eyes in triangles like his father. This gives him a bit of a hangdog look, which he brings out for older ladies. The young girls get the best of him, and this would be his smile.

Davy Rossi has a smile that speaks volumes, and even has grammar to match. His lips naturally turn up at the corners, but when they stretch into a grin a pair of parentheses and some dimply semi-colons appear in his cheeks. It changes him from the commonplace into something irresistible. And girls… well it leaves girls speechless.

Even Anne is circumspect. She became obsessed with finding him when she heard that he had run away, little knowing it would change the course of her life. Not long after he was found, Davy's father married Marilla, leaving Anne free to pursue her writing dreams in Charlottetown. It would make sense if she gushed over Davy; that she doesn't puzzles Gilbert somewhat.

Anne is notorious for her quirky speeches on everything from sassafras to Socrates. Anyone close to her, however, knows another side; one that welcomes silence to her like a beloved friend. She reserves these silences for moments that touch her spirit: light shining through a leaf, the ting of a spoon in a rosebud teacup, the smell of skin after swimming in a stream, the feel of a sun-warmed gravestone. Those who happen to be with Anne as she absorbs such an instance know to expect a halt in her talk, or even Anne herself, as she clasps her hands under her chin and inhales every trace of the moment.

The quality of silence Anne reserves for Davy is different. All the same it is there and Gilbert doesn't like it, though he tries not to conflate this with not liking _him_. To be fair there was never much friendship between them; they were unequals from the start. Gilbert was a teacher and Davy a thief when they met (or more accurately, when Gilbert bound Davy's feet as he stole through his window, and tied him to a stovepipe.)

After such an unpromising beginning Gilbert became a something of mentor to Davy, but it didn't last long. Gilbert Blythe's greatest ambition is to doctor some sickly folk. Davy is an officer in the Canadian Royal Navy – or soon will be – and destined to sail every sea, making his fortune hunting pirates, before settling on a tropical island with the maiden of his dreams.

The identity of that maid changed daily, sometimes hourly – and it was on this point that Gilbert assumed too much. His own name had been attached to many girls over the years and he never once tried to correct it because it hid a truth he did not want known: that he was falling… falling… falling… falling… in love with Anne Shirley. What if Davy is doing the same?

'You look like you want to take a slug at me,' Davy says, and jumps up from the stoop as if Gilbert is about to do just that.

'Why would I do such a thing?'

'Then why're you here on Christmas night, if not to get a confession about the girl who hurt your mama – Ohh, that's right,' Davy says, nudging Gilbert's arm, 'you were comin' to see _Anne_.'

He gives him a second nudge, then a third. Were they playful jabs or a sly hint that Davy was the one spoiling for a fight? Gilbert isn't sure, and his eyes dart about, noting where the ice is, the water butt, the sack, all things that might help or hinder him if this ends up in a tussle.

'So jumpy, Gil. Don't fret; I was expectin' another lecture, is all. I've had Sergeant Swan, Mrs Lynde, and every church Elder rake me over the coals today.'

'So, you don't know her then?' says Gilbert, unable to hide his amazement.

'Sure, I do,' says Davy. 'I know Margaret Mawsey. She had a pie cart on White Sands pier, used to give me the burned crusts. I used to give her a leg up over the fences of the well-to-do so she could pinch their flowers. She sold buttonholes on Friday nights to all the courtin' dandies.'

'And that's all you gave her, I take it?'

Davy scowls. 'Anne's right, you small town types with your tiny minds – no wonder she can't wait to get out of here.'

'You talked with Anne about that?'

'Of course. I'm goin' with her – to Charlottetown next week. My ship's dry docked near Arrow Point. Anne said she'd introduce me to a friend of hers, Mr Keeps – '

'Mr Keats.'

'That's the one,' says Davy, his smile coming out. 'Have _you_ met him, Gilbert?'

'No,' he replies, attempting to sound as though he couldn't care less. It might have worked too if he had stopped himself from adding, 'But I _have_ met Miss Mawsey. Eight months gone by the look of her.'

'It wasn't me, I tell you.'

'So you say.'

'I see,' says Davy, unbuttoning his jacket, revealing a tailored shirt that hugs his lanky frame.

He wouldn't dream of wearing a vest underneath; a Naval officer did not feel the cold and Davy Rossi is not about to have the local Romeo call his honour into question.

'So my word's no good, but yours is?' he sneers. 'Everyone knows what you get up to – you and Anne. The Pye girls told me all about it, and Ruby. Secret meetin's at the schoolhouse; the two of you hustlin' off to the stream and comin' back with drippin' hair… Hell, you didn't even bother to knock on our front door. What were you plannin' on doin', Gil? Sneakin' into her window and helpin' yourself… like a no good thief?'

'You filthy minded dog –'

' _I'm_ filthy-minded? You had Anne to yourself for three whole days and you still come sniffin' after her, even with your mama on death's door.'

Gilbert's mouth hangs open. It not true – it's _not_. He had no intention of entering Anne's room. His mother wasn't on death's door. Davy was lashing out because he was angry with everyone else and counting on Gilbert to take it, because he always took it, since the first day they met. Gilbert could have marched Davy to the police; instead he tried to help. And Davy was looking for help right now, that's what this was really about.

Gilbert shakes his head in an effort to clear it, and sucks in a deep cold breath.

'You're clearly itching for a fight, but you're not getting one from me.'

Davy laughs, the sort of lusty guffaw that would normally bring the occupants of Green Gables outside to see what the noise was. But this is no ordinary night, and whatever these boys might say is being drowned out by Dora's piano playing; by her father belting out In the Bleak Winter. Davy appears to have forgotten all about them. He slips off his jacket and hangs it on a peg by the door.

'Tired you out, did she?'

'What's that supposed to mean?' says Gilbert, though he has a fair idea.

Davy has made this joke before – though never about someone they knew. Well, he can slander strangers all he wants. But not Anne. Not ever.

Gilbert's fists curl in his pockets and his heart starts clammering:

Don't you dare

Don't you dare

Don't you dare…

Davy dares.

'Must be true what they say about red headed gir –'

The last word is cut short by a balled up fist that leaves Davy Rossi splayed out in the snow.

Gilbert stands over him, knuckles throbbing. Why on earth had he gone for the jaw? His stomach would have done, then he could have pinned him down and made sure he kept his smirking mouth shut. As hazel eyes squeeze tight with the pain and Davy darts toward him, grabbing Gilbert round the ankles and toppling them both. At the last moment, Gilbert remembers the water butt and tucks his chin to his chest, his woollen hat catching the sharp stone corner. Davy's hands are in Gilbert's hair next, pounding his head into the snow. After two thuds Gilbert's head connects with frozen ground. Instinct takes over and he brings his knee up quick and strikes hard at Davy's back. As he arches with the impact Gilbert rolls him over and lands another blow. He's aiming for his cheek, but a dull crack signals he has busted Davy's nose. There is blood everywhere, on Gilbert's hands, Davy's face, and fanned out like a meteor shower, red against the snow.

Gilbert isn't sure if it's hearing Anne's voice or the sight of all the blood that makes him stop. He looks up in the direction of the wood for a moment, and Davy takes his chance. He reaches for the sack lying on the kitchen step, grips a corner, and flicks it at Gilbert's face. It's damp, heavy and studded with gravel and it takes the breath from Gilbert's lungs. He falls back, reaching for his cheek and groaning.

When Anne and Fred come upon them they find Davy on Gilbert's chest, about to give him a black eye to match the one already blooming. Fred yanks Davy off roughly and twists his arm round his back. Davy only tries to get away once. Fred Wright is no scrapper; he might be a half-pint but he knows what he is doing.

'Don't move, Rossi,' Fred snarls, 'and don't get any blood on my new gloves either!'

Anne flies to Gilbert. She tries to lay his head on her lap, but he resists her ministrations and scrambles onto his feet. Her hands go to his biceps next, gripping them in an attempt to prevent Gilbert rushing in for another go.

'What is going on?'

'What _is_ going on!'

The four of them look up to see Marilla in her Sunday best shawl, waving her cane in her hands.

'I mightn't see you, but I can hear you all right. Davy Rossi, Anne Shirley, Fred Wright and Gilbert Blythe get in this house _right now_!'

It goes just how Davy hoped it would go. Gilbert Blythe refuses to say one word. He just sits on the sofa in the kitchen, a lump of steak on his face and takes the lecture like the dutiful boy he is. Eventually he is released in the company of Fred, while Davy is sent to the Allans to have his nose seen to. It is too small a thing to fetch a doctor for, and Ro Blythe is out of the question. The Reverend had picked up a few skills from his mission work out west, and discovered he was the one of a handful of men who could read a medical text. He had relocated a good many noses in his time, even extracted the odd broken tooth.

Davy might lose one of those as well. He hadn't managed to loosen any of Gilbert's, but the rest of his face is in a sorry state. Even Fred can't hold his tongue.

'What's your Pa going to say when he sees you _and_ your ma?'

'So long as he says something. The worst thing is when he says nothing at all.'

'But why'd you hit Davy like that?'

'I know – I know – I should have aimed for his gut.'

'No Gil.' Fred stops in his tracks. 'I mean why did you hit him in the first place?'

'He was spoiling for a fight… so I gave him one.'

Gilbert attempts a smile but it's hard to do with a fat lip and a cheek so swollen it threatens to close one eye. The other eye is closed, though his hand is his biggest worry. There's a paper he wants to submit early so he can take some extra shifts at the Daily News when he gets back to Redmond. He almost wishes he were there already.

His father might be home as soon as tomorrow night. Two hours ago Gilbert couldn't wait for his return, now it fills him with apprehension. He'd be mad, that was certain, not for scrapping so much as giving Ma more to worry over. Hopefully the gift Pa is bringing on Gilbert's behalf will go some way to make up for it. Six months' wages it had cost. He just prays his mother doesn't hit him over the head with it – if she can find a fresh place to hit.

He misses her fussing as he readies himself for bed. After a fight, she would help him with his shirt and make a compress for the bruises. His room is cold; the fire has gone out because he never thought to bank it. His good eye is now so squashed by his cheek that he can't see well enough to pick out a match. His bed is cold too, which makes him think of Anne, the way she shivered as she lay next to him last night. And he had fought against the urge to bring her _here;_ to his cold, boxy room with its piles of books and crumpled clothes and a sagging narrow bed?

It creaks when he lays down on it, and even though the spare room lies between him and his mother's room, he can clearly make out Granny Giraud's snore: a honk and a whistle, a honk and a whistle, giving every impression of mocking him.

There's an iron taste of blood in his mouth. The lump on his cheek feels as big as a pillow. And when he dreams the door is closing and the light is but a sliver.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter five**_

'Did you apply a compress?'

'I went to bed.'

'Did you raise the injured area?'

'Does my pillow count?'

'Tell me you took arnica at least?'

'Dora gave me a moose steak.'

'Gilbert Blythe! Be sensible. How many fingers am I holding up, do you have any blurred vision, headaches? Oh I don't like the look of your right eye. It's a bad sign –'

'Ma I don't have a head fracture, I don't have two black eyes – at least I think I don't…'

Gilbert goes to the small oval mirror set into the coat stand and peers into it. Though one eye is half closed he can see just fine and he studies himself with curiosity: the split in his eyebrow, the pitted graze at his temple and various shades of purple everywhere else.

'What are your thoughts on my cheek,' he asks, as his mother peeps over his shoulder, 'mulberry or plum?' Ro huffs. 'It's an important distinction,' he says, grinning crookedly, 'you know my opinion on the chromatic scale.'

'Then you should take great enjoyment in your own reflection. Expect that handsome mug of yours to turn brown, green and yellow over the next few weeks. Fortunately Anne will be spared the worst of it, seeing she's leaving on Friday. She's still talking to you, I take it?'

'Why shouldn't she?'

'Oh I don't know… because you burst in on the first Christmas the Rossis have had together for I don't know how many years, and broke her brother's nose.'

Even in her kimono and her hair in unkempt curls, his mother commands respect. Still, he loathes it when she sinks to sarcasm; it was something other mothers did, not his. The smile vanishes and he stuffs his hands into his pockets and strides off into the dining room.

Gilbert has taken it over this Christmas break and privately thinks of it as his study. He wishes it was, then he could rightfully close the door. But he can't and his mother knows this. His book is barely opened before she strides into the room.

'Don't you walk away from me –'

'He's not her brother,' Gilbert says.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Davy Rossi. He's not her brother. I have never heard Anne call him that.'

'Well I have,' Ro counters, then immediately regrets it. The sting on her son's face is far greater than anything Davy Rossi could inflict. 'But that is by the bye,' she says quickly, 'you had no right to go barging in there looking for a fight –'

'For the hundredth time,' says Gilbert, slamming his book shut, 'I wasn't looking for a fight.'

'Then what were you looking for?'

'Me, I hope!'

Mother and son turn swiftly to see John Blythe filling the doorway. His brown eyes twinkle with gladness and relief; if these two were bickering things can't be all that bad – pity the same couldn't be said for Gilbert's face. His opinion on that must wait, however, it is his wife who needs him now.

He pulls off his hat and flings it on the table, his salt and pepper hair standing up in spikes.

'My girl, my girl,' he says to his wife, enfolding her in his great arms, 'I'm back now,' he murmurs into her hair, 'I'm back, I'm back…'

Ro disappears into the folds of his travelling cloak and gives into all the tears she would not shed till her husband's return. Their son slinks past, John ruffling his curls as he leaves the room, and walks straight into Fred.

'What are you –'

'Shhhh!' Fred utters, and gestures to the spare room. 'Granny's still asleep. If we wake her, we'll have to help her with her boots. Have you ever had to swaddle your grandmother's toes? It's not good, Gil…' he shakes his head. 'It's not good.'

They head into the kitchen, Gilbert offering Fred some coffee. He has already had three cups this morning, but surely a fourth wouldn't hurt.

'I got something better than that,' says Fred and motions for them to go outside. 'Reckon your folks'll be busy for a while?'

Gilbert grabs his coat and nods. If they weren't canoodling they soon would be, bandaged hand or no. Not that he would admit such a thing. Though it hardly matters, Fred has something more pressing on his mind.

They scoot over to the wash-house and he brings out a bottle from inside his coat. It contains a clear gold liquid and sparkles with a promising effervescence. The first thing Gilbert thinks of is dandelion beer, and he says as much.

Fred pouts. ' 'course you would know what it was. Could probably make a fair brew.'

'Prob'ly could,' Gilbert agrees, taking a swig. He wipes his mouth gingerly and passes the bottle back. 'Where'd you get this?'

'You like it? It's from Granny's stash, I took it before I left last night.'

'Your granny makes this?'

Fred attempts to shake his head but he is more concerned with getting more beer down his throat.

'Goes down real easy, no wonder Granny likes it. Though she's more partial to Miss Cuth – sorry, Mrs Rossi's red current wine. S'posed to help her rheumatism. I tell you Gil, her toes look like Jerusalem artichokes,' and he takes another slug. 'Do you ever think about that? Bein' a doctor is an honourable profession and all, but the _things_ you'll see up close.'

'Tell your granny to add some belladonna to her liniment, half an ounce should do it –'

'Not just toes,' Fred cuts in, his eyes out-bugging Charlie Sloane. ' _Other_ things. Women's things. Babies and the like. Say you make a doctor of yourself and come back to Avonlea? You might be called on to deliver Ruby's baby or Anne's or – '

'Glory, Fred! What on earth put that in your head?' Gilbert utters, wishing the image was not so irretrievably in his own.

Fred necks the rest of the bottle.

'I dunno. She's so lovely, you see, and I can't help thinkin' we'll never be married. Then I think of her with someone else, marryin' someone else, havin' his baby, and then… well I thought of you –'

'You think _I'd_ marry Diana?'

' 'course not, you dolt. I thought of you as her doctor. Your pa was yammering about how proud he was of you and how well you were doing at Redmond. On and on he went. I suppose he was trying to keep us both awake – You want this?' he says of the empty bottle. 'Maybe your ma could use it for her potions.'

Fred brushes some snow from the wash-house door and leans against it, smiling. His eyelids look close to falling shut. Gilbert pokes him in the ribs.

'You're not here to collect your granny are you?'

'Nope,' Fred says. 'Came here with your pa.'

'You mean you went to meet him at the station?'

'We never sent the telegram, so how could he be at the station?'

Fred opens his eyes and gives his chum wink.

'I went to fetch him, didn't I? After you had that run in with Rossi I decided enough was enough. So I took the sleigh to Vale's Crossing and ferried my horse across. Split my new gloves too, genuine silk-lined kidskin – from Diana,' he adds needlessly. 'Those ropes were mighty hard on my hands; the river was runnin' fierce. After that it was just a matter of a sixteen-mile ride to Charlottetown. Your Pa came straight away, couldn't get out of there fast enough. He took one of Miss Blythe's nags, and we rode back to the Crossing and drove the sleigh back home.'

Gilbert remains silent, emotions hitting him like so many fists. Admiration, jealousy, gratitude, pummelling him till he doesn't know what he feels. He rubs his knuckles absently then presses on the pad of this thumb. It still bears a hair thin cut, and he runs it over his bottom lip.

'You all right, Gil?' Fred asks him, 'You look a little dazed.'

Gilbert clears his throat and pats Fred on the back.

'Sorry, I – you surprised me, is all. I don't know what to say, Fred. Thank you.'

Fred looks alarmed by the earnest expression on his chum's beaten face.

'It was nothin',' he mutters, 'you would have done the same for me.'

'You're right, I would, first chance I got,' says Gilbert swiftly, and heads toward the back door. 'Well, I best go in. I can see your granny home, if you like. Then you could get some rest.'

Fred makes a sound like a locomotive letting off steam, and does an awkward jig.

'I won't say no. I'm in need of a soak… All those hours in the saddle...'

'He's a fine lad, that Fred Wright,' John Blythe says later, from the comfort of his rocker.

It has been returned to its rightful position and Granny Giraud to hers, and the Blythe family are finally able to enjoy a belated Christmas.

Ro gets her new bowl, and some scented writing paper, and ten yards of fabric with flowers so fine Gilbert found himself trying to identify them. She is outside with Gilbert's extravagant present, a shining brass spyglass, and is lying on the daybed John had carried into the backyard, studying the low evening moon.

In three days it would be fully illuminated. In three days Anne would be gone. Gilbert runs his thumb over his lips again and looks over at his father.

'He's a hero,' he says.

John recognises the look in those hazel eyes. The boy wore the same expression when it looked like they couldn't afford to send him to Queens. John shifts his stocking feet off the footstool and gestures for Gilbert to sit. Gone is the boy whose chin had to point to the ceiling when he spoke to his father. They are eye to eye now, though Gilbert sits much lower. He will be tall and fine like his uncle Dave. He was a doctor too – maybe there was something in that. Some men are made for hammers and shears, others for scalpels and fountain pens. John had known for a long time Gilbert wouldn't make a farmer, even before the little lad taught himself to read by sounding out the labels on his father's chest medicines. When he was still curled up in his mother's belly and she was reading a battered reprint of _Compendium Medicinae_ , John knew his son would take a different path.

'What about Gilbertus?' she had said, studying the spine of the book.

'Whoever heard of a farmer named Gilbertus?' John spluttered. 'I thought we settled on John.'

His wife had laughed till her whole belly shook.

' _You_ settled on John. Just like your father, and his father before that.'

'Exactly.'

'Mmm… Gilbert Blythe. It has a lovely mouth feel, don't you think – oh John, he's kicking! You can't argue with that now. I tell you what, you may have the choosing of the girl's name – Oof, but this boy can kick!'

And so Gilbert it was, for there was no doubt in Ro Blythe's mind she was carrying a son, and she was right. But not always. She had been wholly wrong about this Margaret Mawsey from White Sands, if that's where she really hailed from. Thank the sweet Lord for Fred. The wee Tourtiere punched well above his weight – and his height, come to that.

John snorts and wipes his eyes, then plonks a foot on Gilbert's lap.

'How're your knuckles fairing, reckon you could work on that?'

Gilbert sighs and slips off an intricately knitted sock and begins kneading the heel. It's unpleasant work; there are all sorts of knots beneath a tough layer of skin, yet he grins despite himself.

'Glad you find my feet so funny.'

'I was thinking of something Fred said about becoming a doctor.'

'If you survive till then.'

Gilbert decides to ignore that remark and gestures for the other foot.

'Why do womenfolk go to such trouble knitting up patterns for something that's never seen?'

John snorts again. 'Wait till you see their underthings. The hours they must spend on the lace! But what am I saying, you've seen more than your share of lace by all accounts –'

'Whose accounts?' Gilbert's head shoots up and he drops his father's foot to the floor.

'Watch my corns!' John yelps.

'Sorry Pa,' says Gilbert, sheepishly. 'I just don't like the thought of all Avonlea talking about me.'

John leans forward in his chair, pinning his son with a look.

'Then stop giving them cause. Listen, you're clearly set on Anne Shirley. Why not court her properly, out in the open, instead of all this cloak and dagger nonsense. It's her idea, I take it? Her curious idea of romance.'

Anne's curious idea of romance. Gilbert never supposed his father ever knew of such notions. Clearly it isn't just Avonlea folks who are talking, his parents are in on it too. Did they know he asked Anne to come to Redmond with him, that he offered to use his mother's savings to help pay her tuition?

A sick, sinking feeling claws inside him as he recalls Anne's answer. She wouldn't come, she had her own dreams – and he wanted her to follow them, of course he did. Still it hurt, hurt powerfully, the mere thought of spending years without her.

'It is her idea,' he says quietly, 'but not in the way you think. I know it sounds peculiar but hear me out. You see I didn't ever see myself marrying, not when I couldn't be sure I could provide for a wife and – and –' how hard it is to say the word, 'children.'

Gilbert shoots to his feet and stands by the stove, if it had been an open fireplace he would have poked it. Instead he makes a show of warming himself when in truth he feels uncomfortably hot.

'Anne was in a similar position. You remember when Miss Cuth – sorry Mrs Rossi, learned she was going blind? Anne was resolved to stay at Green Gables and care for her. We decided it made no sense to court because we knew it could never lead to marriage. So we just… well we just…'

'You love her?'

Gilbert turns from the stove and faces his father squarely.

'Yessir.'

'Think she'll wait?' John continues, then sits back flabbergasted as his son begins studying his thumb of all things.

A moment later Gilbert answers with a wistful, 'I don't know.'

John Blythe slaps his thigh. 'Then you're courting!'

'We are?'

'What do you think courting is? For you to prove your worth. Show her you can provide for her. Protect her. A woman has to be very sure, so does her family come to that. When she marries, she gives a man everything: body and soul, consider that. Courtship is a woman's way of testing you. But I wouldn't worry, you've never failed one yet!'

John smiles broadly, bristling with good feeling. So the two of them were as good as courting, that would show those nosing pecksniffs. In a few months Anne would be eighteen, they might even announce their engagement. He rubs his hands together with well-earned glee. This would cheer his wife and no mistake. It didn't appear to have the same effect on Gilbert, however. The boy looks like he is about to lose his lunch.

'What is it, son, you don't looked pleased at all?'

'I didn't protect her. Or Ma. Fred did. He caught Margaret, he fetched you.'

'Ah well,' John says, easily, and he settles back into his chair. 'The first instance was dumb luck by the sound of it, and the second was because he's loyal. You've helped him out dozens of times; I doubt he'd still be chancing his hand with the Barry girl if you hadn't egged him on. And you know how fond he is of Ro. He squealed like a piglet when she stitched his thumb together and she never said a word.'

'Except to you.'

'I know a few things…' John says, standing up to join his son.

He wants to touch him, but how many times can he ruffle his hair as though he was a little boy? Nor could be pinch his nose, or cup his face, not when he was beat up like that. Fred assured him on the drive back to Avonlea that the Rossi boy got the worst of it, and John can't help hoping Fred was right. He had seen the way Davy flung Anne around the parlour at Marilla's wedding; with such carelessness, such disregard, for so dear and fair a girl.

John kept playing his fiddle, but he wouldn't have minded applying the sharp end of his bow to Davy's back-end once or twice. Ro might wonder what the boys scrapped over, but John has a good idea. He's not about to say he's proud of Gilbert for doing what he did (though he might have if he hadn't got caught) but sharing the praises of another, surely there is no harm in that.

'I know your mother is very proud of you, Gil, for the way you took care of her when I was away.'

'But I didn't –'

'Any number of men could have tracked that girl down, and I'm sure you wish you were one of them. Instead you spent hours reading on remedies and making up salves. That last batch of lavender oil, the way it's healing her wrist. Gilbert, it's miraculous. Your Ma is beside herself with pride, and kicking herself for kicking you out of the cottage as often as she did. She told me all about Christmas morning, how she watched you work, said it near made her cry.'

Gilbert frowns and bites his lip. He isn't used to this kind of talk. They last time they attempted such a thing his father turned a chat about the fundamentals of bedding a woman into a geometry lesson.

'Why didn't Ma tell me this?' he says at last.

Despite the bruising Gilbert's eyes are huge; John finds himself thinking of Lottie.

'Your mother knows you don't want to be a herbalist anymore than you want to be a farmer. A proper doctor, isn't that right? Isn't that why you're hopin' Anne will wait?'

He winks at his son, signalling that the fraught conversation is over. Gilbert can't help sigh with relief.

'She's making me wait too, don't forget.'

'What,' John barks, 'this lark at the Echo? Bah! The girl doesn't know her own mind, she's the spit of Marilla Cuth –' and he coughs, suddenly, and heads for the kitchen and the box where he keeps his tobacco.

Gilbert comes up behind him and hands him his favourite pipe.

Taking in his grin, John adds, 'Yes, and I find it comical too. Anne Shirley's a country girl. A country girl through and through. I've seen her, talking to the trees like they were people. She won't last in a week in Charlottetown, you mark my words.'

'I'd like to see you tell her that.'

'She's a fierce one, I grant you,' his father says, and peers out the kitchen window.

Ro has turned the daybed on its side and wedged her spyglass into the frame. He taps on the window and she waves her bandaged hand at him, before fixing her eye on the sky once more.

John wraps his hand around his son, his great hands squeezing him tight. Gilbert leans his head against his father.

'She's a fierce one, all right.'

 **…**

 _*Compendium Medicinae first written by Gilbertus Anglicus sometime between 1230 and 1250_

 _*tourtiere is a French-Canadian meat pie. It is also Fred's nickname (first mentioned in Anotherlea, as was the notorious dandelion beer and the even more notorious geometry lesson.)_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter Six**_

On Saturday Anne leaves for Charlottetown, Gilbert six days later. They are clearing snow off the tracks and his train is now ten minutes late. He had intended on buying a posy before he met Anne on the steps of the Echo. Now it looks like he will have to make his way there as soon as he arrives. She never replied to the letter he gave her the day she left, but he refuses to feel uneasy about this. She has only been in Charlottetown a week and was probably working all sorts of hours. Besides she knows he has a three hour stop before he goes on to Kingsport – and he means to make the most of it. When he mounts the marble stairs that mark the grand entrance to the town's biggest newspaper he has no doubt Anne will be there.

That she isn't, does not alarm him. According to the clock tower across the street Anne is only five minutes late. Perhaps she is waiting inside for him, the wind here is achingly cold. He pulls his coat lapels up round his ears, aware of the bold stares of the men and women exiting the building. He looks like a hoodlum and he knows it. His professors will certainly have something to say. How impossible it seems that he left college ten days ago certain Anne would be coming back with him. Even now he is unconvinced of her choice; that she would prefer this grimy harbour town to the ivory towers of Redmond, and he yanks his scarf up round his nose as the reek of tar and salted cod is carried on the wind.

At half past six he decides it's time to seek Anne out. A man in a porter's uniform is bolting the main front door and snorts with annoyance when Gilbert approaches. He doesn't know a Miss Shirley, but he might be willing to direct the young man to the other entrance _if_ they could come to some arrangement. Gilbert gives the porter the coins he had meant for Anne's flowers, and follows him to the warehouse doors at the back of the building. The printers and deliverymen use this entrance, and he offers to show Gilbert the way – for another small consideration of course.

Gilbert tips his hat and walks past him. He has spent enough time at the Daily News to know how to navigate his way through such a building. Soon enough he finds himself in a grey marble foyer, where dusty leafed palm trees and pink marble columns make monstrous shadows upon the floor. Through the clerestory windows he can see the waxing moon glow behind yellowy clouds. Beneath the windows is a large sign with brass letters glinting softly.

'Can I help you?'

Gilbert feels a sharp prod on his shoulder and turns to find what can only be described as a roly-poly man; his gaudy checked suit stretched tight over a belly that would make Sam Gillis proud. Gilbert flashes him a broad smile and inquires after Anne. The man has never heard of her, but a woman in grey standing behind him huffs. She knows Anne Shirley, all right – small wonder the girl knows riffraff like this.

'Lasted three days and never came back. After all the trouble Mr Oliver took to engage her. I tried to warn him, but he would he listen? That's what happens when you hire hayseeds.'

Gilbert flinches. The hayseed comment he is used to, the moment anyone at Redmond discovers he is an Islander they start in with the potato jokes. What disturbs him is finding out Anne hasn't been seen for two days. This job had been a dream for her; there is no way she would have quit like that. Questions swim around his head; he has to find her. It then occurs to him that he hasn't any idea where she lives. He thinks about dashing upstairs and hunting through the Echo's records, but it would probably earn him a night in the cells. No one would believe his explanation, especially with a face like this.

His cheek throbs as he exits the building and he finds the porter sharing a cigarette with a delivery boy. The scent of burnt toast and cedar reminds him of Davy, and he feels about in his pocket for another coin. When he hands it over they tell him where the ships are docked. He wants Arrow Point, not Mungo Pier; it was a good half hour walk. When Gilbert asks where the sailors reside while their ships are being mended, the two give him filthy snickers.

'Oh so it's Congress Row you're wanting, is it? I'm sure you'll find your way. Just follow the stench of rum and sweat!'

Only the drunkest men and the most desperate women are out on Row tonight. The Cat's got her claws out, that's what they say when the north wind slices through the alleys. Inside the taverns are plenty of red coats, sailors in white, and burly-armed stevedores. Gilbert ducks inside each establishment but the chance of finding Davy is slim. Even if one of these men knows Davy, the matching bruises on Gilbert's face are sure to give him away. They will assume Gilbert is looking for more trouble and doubtless oblige him. When he catches sight of a red headed girl and follows her down the Row it strikes him how panicked he has become. There is no way Anne would be strolling bare headed, her hair in oily curls down her back. He pictures Anne here last summer wandering these same streets looking for Davy. Nothing daunted her, nothing, and ignoring the calls from the redheaded girl he marches toward Arrow Point.

He has no idea the name of Davy's ship, but there might be someone who does. Anne's Mr Keats lives around here, and if Gilbert can't find Davy he is determined to find him.

The Old Sailor's Home is locked up for the night, but Gilbert doesn't care for propriety now and pounds his fist on the door. A red nosed matron appears, takes one look at Gilbert and tries to close the door again.

'Please ma'am, I am looking for a fellow by the name of Keats.'

The matron nods, and locks the door once more. Gilbert is about to kick it in, then an orderly appears who escorts him up the stairs to a surprisingly spacious room.

Mr Keats is pacing the floor and he rushes at Gilbert as he enters.

'I've been waitin' for someone to miss that sweet girl. Give me your arm, let me take you to her.'

Mr Keats is blind. Of all the things Anne said about him, she never once mentioned that. He grips hard on Gilbert's elbow as they descend the stairs.

'Watch the last one,' John Keats says, 'there's a nasty nail at one end.'

When they enter the street Gilbert is curious as to how they will get to Anne's house.

'Fifty-odd paces that way,' says Keats, pointing hard right. There's an Atlas cedar, is there not?' and he takes a good-sized sniff. 'Yes, down there, laddie, right to the end. You'll find it last on the left.'

'Here?' says Gilbert, looking up at four storey building scarcely wider than a horse and cart.

Its whitewashed façade glows in the moonlight, and the second floor window is open. Tatty lace curtains catch the wind and a woman leans out as Mr Keats knocks.

'Who's that, who's knockin'?' she calls. 'Mr Keats, is that you? Who's that you got with you? Is it the doctor? Ooh,' she adds, sizing up Gilbert, 'looks like he needs one!'

'Mrs Captain, come down and open this door. The Cat'll take my hat in a minute!'

Eventually Mrs Captain makes it downstairs. She does not follow them up.

'On the top floor, isn't she? Insisted on it, strange girl. Told her she'd have to do her own linen. I'm not traipsing up and down four flights of stairs ten times a day.'

Gilbert can only feel grateful, and takes the stairs three at a time. The attic space is cramped and damp and the Cat's call sings through the eaves. There are two doors on either side of the staircase and he chooses the room that would have a view of the sea.

Inside it is close and clammy, lit with a kerosene lamp, and thick with the smell of camphor and cold soup. His foot almost knocks the bowl over as he tiptoes to the bed and finds Anne huddled under the bedclothes.

'Anne, I'm here, are you unwell?'

He pulls back the bedclothes gently. Anne's hair is matted and her face looks shrunken and pale. She lifts her eyelids slowly, as though it took all her effort to do so.

' 'lo Blythe – I'm a little under the weather – but I'll be fine in a minute or two – I'm going to wear a running stream – and we'll throw a ball – and go dancing with the ice swan…'

Mr Keats comes up behind Gilbert and places a hand on his back.

'Heard her chatter all the way up here. She no better then?'

Gilbert falls to Anne's side and presses his hand on her hot dry head.

'How long has she had this fever?'

'Can't say. A day or two. She tried to hide it, naturally – '

'I'm not sick – I'm going dancing – Davy gave me ribbons for my hair!'

'Where is Davy?'

'You mean the fellow in the Navy? He was s'posed to meet Anne and me for supper last Sunday, but he never showed. He'll be long gone now. Ship sailed Tuesday.'

'And has Anne been seen by a doctor?'

'No!' Anne shrieks. 'Not him – he smothered me in camphor oil – I smell like a hope chest!'

'She don't like doctors much,' says Mr Keats, testily.

Gilbert can't help grin.

'I hope I can change her mind about that.'

To do so he is going to have to stay until she's well; there is just one thing in his way. Mrs Peter Lawless – known to all as the Captain's wife, and after his death, Mrs Captain – is a God fearing woman. And there is no way – _not none_ – that she is letting a young man of dubious appearance spend the night in Miss Shirley's room. She might be persuaded to let the room opposite, but he would have to sign a lease and agree to stay a month at least. Gilbert manages to negotiate her down to three nights – for a small fee of course. By the time he has taken a cab to the station and brought back his trunk he is down to mere pennies, which is why he has to stay till Monday morning, so he can withdraw more money from the bank. He will have to purchase another ferry passage too, but he isn't thinking of that right now.

Chief on his mind is where to find a likely supply of feverfew. It's then he remembers the turkey-tail mushrooms. He went hunting for them soon after his fight with Davy, when he heard half of Avonlea was descending on the Blythe place to make their opinions known. Before he left for Redmond his mother tucked a box of dried out slivers into his trunk, the way other mothers stuff in handkerchiefs and vests.

He asks Mrs Captain for a pot of water and soon has a tea bubbling over the fire. Anne keeps falling asleep as he tries to feed it to her, and he remembers the night they got lost in the snowstorm. His mother had spooned hot tea into her mouth in an effort to get her warm, and Anne spilled it all over her dress. Gilbert dutifully averted his gaze while his mother changed her clothing, but he couldn't _not_ look when she said, "How strange." His eyes flew open and he saw Anne in her under-things, a badly ripped book pressed close to her chest. What wasn't there, what didn't occur to him till later, was that she wasn't wearing a corset. Gilbert considered this information for quite a few nights after that.

'Just one more spoonful,' he entreats, as the last of it goes down.

Anne begins to feel warm for the first time in days and the chills are beginning to subside. It had nothing to do with the tea; there was no time for it to work on her yet, all the same Gilbert feels her return.

Her grey eyes open wide with relief, and she presses his palm to her dry, pale lips.

'Thank you, Gilbert,' she murmurs, softly, 'thank you for finding me.'

Anne sleeps for most of the following day, when she isn't being dosed with mushroom tea. Sometime around eleven that night she taps on Gilbert's door. She can hear the sound of a book hit the floor, then the snap of his suspenders as he flicks them over his shoulders. His face appears next, unshaven and wildly handsome – despite the scabbed up cheekbone and the ugly yellow bruise round his eye. When Anne asks him what colour he would call that, Gilbert knows she is on the mend.

'I've been awake for a while, I guess I slept too much,' she says, perching on the end of his bed.

The neck of her nightgown slips down and she rubs her cheek against her shoulder.

'Here,' says Gilbert, stuffing a pillow against the bed frame.

He untucks the heavy wool blankets next and secures them over her, neatly.

'Better?' he asks her.

'Much,' she says.

There is nowhere else for Gilbert to sit, so he resumes his place on the opposite end of the bed, his knees up round his chin. Neither of them can think of what to say, and they listen to the Cat screeching round the rooftop and steal through the gap in the window. When it ceases the silence is so pronounced, there is no way for them to ignore it.

'What are you reading?' she asks.

Gilbert retrieves the book from the floor and holds it up.

'What about you, do newspaper cadets have much time for –' and he squints at the title, 'The Dependence Between the Properties of the Atomic Weights on the Elements?''

Anne rubs her cheek against her shoulder again.

'I brought plenty with of books me, but I haven't opened one. The last thing I remember reading was a certain letter a certain someone handed to me at the station. A clever move,' she adds, teasingly, 'knowing I had no time to reply.'

'That wasn't my intention – well not fully,' he grins, as she kicks him. 'It took me so long to write the thing. I wasn't sure what I wanted to say.'

He had said the same thing in his letter. It was his father's fine words about courtship that compelled him to write, on a page of his mother's new stationery. The next day he read over what he had written and threw it in the fire, only to begin another after delving into his bible. He soon gave up on that letter and went searching for a pertinent quote from the novel he was reading. Soon after he tossed the book aside and without knowing why, Gilbert went to the mirror and studied himself. There were purple-brown bruises and a blue-grey graze, but the ugliest thing about him could not be seen. Davy Rossi had shamed Gilbert so completely. Not because he had bested him, because of his taunts about Anne. It was thinking of her that got the letter written – though its recipient still isn't sure what he means.

Flossy strands of red hair frame her face and she tucks them back, absently.

'Why did you avoid me, after the fight? You knew I was coming to visit your mother –'

'Along with Marilla, Martin, Dora and every Pye, Sloane, Wright, and Gillis in the village.'

'I know. I had to stand there in your crowded parlour while they made a great show of concern about your _fisticuffs_ with Davy.'

'I can guess what they were saying,' says Gilbert, 'that it had something to do with Miss Mawsey.'

Anne starts. That is exactly what they were saying. After the fight Gilbert had let Davy do the talking, who averred Gilbert's blow had come out of nowhere. He was more forthcoming with Ruby, however, and she was very eager to relay the particulars in the Blythe's small parlour the following day. The boys were fighting over Miss Mawsey – though why Gilbert Blythe should care about her, Ruby wouldn't like to say.

The seeds had been planted, however. Gilbert's name was now tied to Margaret's. Anne was sure his letter would reveal the true explanation, yet all he seemed to say was that he'd made a grave mistake…

'Anne? Don't you agree? Everything points to Davy being responsible, yet folks are starting to look at me. I can't help think that was Davy's plan along.'

'Sorry,' Anne says, shaking her head, 'what plan was this?'

Gilbert realises he has gone too far. There's no way for him to explain why he got into a fight without revealing the vile things Davy said. What makes it worse is that Davy's taunts would have no power if Gilbert simply played by the rules and courted Anne like a gentleman.

He leaps from the bed and strides to the small gable window, eyes seeking out Orion, but there are no stars to be seen tonight, only the moon shrouded in smoke from the paper mill. He doesn't like it here, doesn't like the thought of a dryad like Anne existing in a place like this – but then is Kingsport any better?

'I don't…' he falters, and returns to the bed, 'I wish…'

Anne folds back her blankets and sits next to him, taking his hand in hers. She looks so young in her two thick braids and flannel nightgown, younger than her seventeen years. It makes his next words both easier and harder to say.

'Do you remember that day at the stream, when we first – kissed?' Anne nods her head, uncertainly. 'I told you I wasn't safe and… I feel like I've proved it.'

'Not safe?' Anne says slowly. 'Is this what you meant in your letter, when you asked me what I thought might happen if your mother hadn't been hurt… if we had gone to her cottage the night we made our oath?'

' _Did_ you know? _Do_ you?'

Gilbert snatches his hand away and kneels at her feet, seeking the answer from her eyes in the same way he had sought one from the sky.

'Because _I_ was thinking it, Anne. At that moment I couldn't think of anything else.'

He rubs his mouth roughly and drops his head.

'What right have I to judge Davy, when in truth I'm no better than him?'

He feels Anne's hand at his chin, and she lifts it gently.

'You are nothing like Davy Rossi.'

'Of course you'd say that, you know me. But think of what it looks like to the outside world –'

Anne leaps to her feet, her grey eyes fierce with green. If Gilbert didn't know before, he has his answer now.

'I don't care about people like that!' she cries. 'People like _that_ keep Diana and Fred apart; they cast out a girl like Margaret, whisper behind your mother's back. I won't let them touch us. I won't! They can't have us, Gilbert. We belong to each other – '

Anne marches round the bed as she says this, then kneels at Gilbert's side, taking his hand in hers once more and pressing their thumbs together.

'Remember?'

'I do remember,' he says, firmly, then he breaks her gaze and takes a deep breath. 'I think we should court, Anne. I want to court you. Properly, out in the open –'

'But why, why do you want to go back on our oath?'

'Go _back_ on it?'

Anne slips to the floor, the pink flush that coloured her cheeks fading to a sickly hue.

'I thought... that is when we made our oath – I thought we promised ourselves to each other.'

'I did too.'

'Then why do you want to test me now?'

'Why do _I_ want to test _you?_ '

'Well don't you?' Anne reasons. 'Isn't what this is all about? You said we made a mistake at the stream, then you write a letter asking me to tell you what I thought was going to happen if we went to the cottage? You're testing me, aren't you? You want to know if I can withstand temptation?'

Gilbert is a picture of astonishment. He should be used to her surprising him, but not for worlds did he expect these words to come from the mouth of Anne Shirley. For a moment he wonders if she is still in a fever. What on earth made her believe such a thing?

' _That's_ what you think of courting?'

'It's what all women think. When you court it's the man's role to seduce and the woman's to repulse. But if she dares give in, if she gives herself to him, well then he knows not to trust her, and throws her away – Gilbert Blythe, it's not funny, you know what I am saying is right!'

Gilbert's hand is over his mouth which gapes with badly suppressed laughter.

'Throw you away? I never meant that at all. I want to protect you –'

'From who,' Anne persists, 'from _you_?'

It sounds ridiculous when she put it like that. Why does his father's advice always seem like foolishness whenever he tries to apply it to Anne?

'I don't know what I was thinking,' he says, 'trying to fit what we have with the rules.'

He sits on the bed and offers his hand. Anne remains on the floor.

'Save your rules for the periodic table,' she says, tossing his book at him. 'But the rest of you, save that for me.'

The next afternoon Anne insists she is well enough for a walk. If she hadn't suggested it, Gilbert would have. His attic room is stifling and he rather liked the idea of taking his girl on the town. The last time they were in Charlottetown together they were students at Queens. Anne was four years into her five-year grudge, and Gilbert had almost convinced himself that he didn't care one way or the other. It wasn't as though there was a shortage of girls willing to keep him company. Although those girls' eyes tended to glaze over whenever he talked about anything other than where the next dance would be held, or the scandalous price of student essentials like novels and hot chocolate.

Everyone went to Lillian's teahouse back then. Sometimes Gilbert would see Anne there after they had they had finished class, sitting in the furthest booth, nose deep in a book. No matter how rowdy the crowd got round his table, she never once looked up at him. But he likes his chances now.

They get within a quarter mile of Lillian's when Gilbert remembers he doesn't have any money.

'We could share a hot chocolate,' he says, grimly, eyeing the coins in his palm. 'I forgot how much it costs to live in a city.'

Anne pulls him along, secretly glad to forgo the rowdy teahouse.

'Surely Kingsport can't be cheap?'

'No, but it's interesting – college at least.'

They talk on this as they walk together: his classes, his chums, his days in lecture halls, his nights at the Daily News. By the time Anne's own job at the paper comes up they are perched on a stone wall, west of the harbour. The wind here is much colder, but also brisk and clean.

Anne's cheeks pinken, and her eyes are as wide and grey as the sea before them. When she came to his room last night, she looked so faded and small; like a pressed flower instead of a living bloom. Gilbert still felt desire – of course he did – but it was easily quelled. Anne's aliveness seemed to correspond with his own: the more she felt it, the more he felt, so that now as she laughs so hard a tear comes to her eye, he has to stop himself pulling her into his arms and planting a kiss on her smiling mouth.

'And that was only my first day,' she continues. 'On the second they thought I might do better if I covered the presentation at the Literary Society. But once I noticed Miss Hamilton leave, and Mr Mayhew not long after, I simply had to follow. So I leaped on the back of Mr Mayhew's carriage –'

'The Mr Mayhew who paid for the new Queens Language wing, the one who lives on the Hill?'

'I didn't know they were heading that far. Then it started raining and I got soaked through. But I did see Miss Hamilton enter his property.'

'And this is newsworthy, how?'

'Miss Hamilton is the chair of the Hearth and Home Association. She openly detests Queens, thinks co-educational institutions are unnatural.'

'I know Hearth and Home; they're always writing letters to the Daily News protesting the admission of women at Redmond. Never thought a Hearth and Homer would be the clandestine type. She and Mayhew are having an affair, I suppose,' Gilbert concludes, flatly.

It was the sort of thing his paper printed; not a story he thought Anne would stoop to write.

'Perhaps I should have found a way to climb up to the bedroom, but I was hoping to discover something far more sinister, which is why I went and hid outside the library –'

'The library?'

Anne nods. 'It seemed like a place people would go to scheme. But I think they are lovers because I stood in the rain for three hours and Miss Hamilton never reappeared. I had a seven-mile trek back home. I think I caught about two hours sleep before I was sent to Ayer Park to cover the Dog Show. I spent the whole day in a freezing gale before following up on another lead that night. The next morning I popped in on Mr Keats because I had forgotten my promise to read to him the evening before, and then… well I fainted. One of the orderlies carried me to my boarding house.'

'And no one at the Echo missed you?'

'Nooo…' Anne says, and lowers her gaze. 'But then this isn't like Avonlea, where everyone knows their neighbour's business.'

'But the woman in grey was under the impression you quit–'

'Quit?'

Anne's face is suddenly panicked. She leaps from the wall and grabs her shawl.

'We have to go, Gilbert, we have to go right now – I have to tell them – I never thought. Quit! Oh no, have I lost another job!'

'Hold on, Anne, think about this. Is it likely anyone who is able to give you any sort of answer will be at work today?' Anne shakes her head. 'Then wait till Monday morning. We'll go in together, before I go to the bank.'

Anne turns away and looks toward town as if she could will herself there. Finally she heaves a sigh, the ends of her shawl falling limply in her hands.

'You're right. There's nothing to be gained by going there now. Mr Oliver is the only one who can set this straight and I know for a fact he's in Souris for the weekend.'

Gilbert wraps an arm around her shoulder, and plants a kiss on her head.

'Is there anything you don't know?'

'Yes.' Anne grins. 'I don't know how I'm going to convince you to let me pay for dinner.'

They decide to call in on John Keats, who takes them to a tavern for a hearty roast meal. They end it with thick slices of lemon tart, which begins a conversation on how Anne and Mr Keats first met. She had been searching for Davy, and thought if she sweetened up Mr Keats with something from the Alvarez Bakehouse he might loosen his tongue.

When Gilbert kisses her by her bedroom door later that night, he can't help agree. He had meant it as a chaste almost formal adieu, but the bittersweet taste of Anne's lips leaves him craving more, and he presses his body against hers till the door is pushed open and they topple to the floor.

Mrs Captain must have been in earlier, for the fire is crackling and the curtains pulled. They inch over to the fireplace and the kissing begins anew. When every bit of flavour has been licked from her lips Gilbert lies on his back and catches his breath.

'What exactly was in those tarts –'?

'I know,' Anne breathes, 'they're delicious…'

'You're delicious,' says Gilbert, turning to her.

He slides a finger over her nose and her lips, and traces a line down her chest, pausing at the belt of Anne's smart tartan jacket.

'I think I ate a little too much, would you loosen that for me?' she says next.

Gilbert's long fingers deftly work at the buckle and release the buttons all the way to her neck. Anne's hands are in his hair as he does this, and he winces slightly as she tugs it.

'You're bruised there, too?'

Gilbert nods, and goes in for another kiss, sucking and licking her bottom lip before cramming his mouth upon hers. Soon enough Anne seeks out the buttons on Gilbert's jacket. His shirt buttons are next, then her hands slip under his vest, roaming over his shoulders and the taut muscles on his back. His chest expands under her fingers and he closes his eyes and inhales. He lets it out with a hot low breath silently reasoning with himself. This was fine, this was all still fine; they had done much more than this. Even as he thinks this, his hands are sliding down Anne's waist and gripping her thigh through her skirts.

At first Anne makes a soft moan that he takes to mean she wants more. He presses his palm between her legs. Anne shyly moves away.

'What is it?'

Anne bites her lip, and looks up at the ceiling.

'I – that is – we…'

'Did you want me to bolt the door?'

He does so anyway, and resumes his place at her side. Anne is sitting now, and stares into the flickering fire.

'Gilbert, do you remember… those days when I refused to swim?'

'Ah –'

'We would go down to the stream and sometimes I'd swim and sometimes I wouldn't? Well this is one of those – _non-_ swimming days… if you see what I mean?'

Gilbert scrunches up one eye as though trying to work something out. He looks out to her window again, to the waxing moon, then glances at her hand. And there it is, the carnelian ring his mother had given her, gleaming on her finger.

'Oh,' he says, and starts buttoning up his shirt.

'Gilbert,' Anne splutters, 'you can still touch me.'

Just as quickly the shirt comes undone. He flings it onto her bed and lies by her side. Anne bursts out laughing and he places a finger on her mouth.

'Shhh, do you want Mrs Captain up here?'

'No, I want you here,' Anne says, and points to the space between her breasts.

Slowly Gilbert releases the hooks that run down the seam of her blouse, revealing the embroidered corset beneath. His hands run over it firmly till the tops of her breasts rise up to her collarbones. They seem larger than usual, fuller. He places little kisses upon each mound and watches her skin go to gooseflesh.

'I like that,' Anne murmurs, 'they're so tender right now. I've longed to take this off all day.'

'Allow me to oblige,' Gilbert says, and releases the metal fastenings, then brings his mouth to the tip of each breast. The thin cotton of her chemise becomes translucent as his tongue grazes over each peak.

'That better?' he says, huskily.

'Much,' Anne sighs.

Two achingly slow and languorous hours pass before either can bear to pull away. Every part of Anne's body; from her bellybutton to her earlobes has been lovingly adored by his mouth. Her own mouth, and the skin around it, is red from grazing against Gilbert's whiskers.

While Gilbert hasn't suffered an equal fate he certainly bears an ache of his own. Anne had run her fingers over him once or twice, but he brushed her hand away. Part of him liked this, liked knowing their touches were restricted; it made every kiss feel twice as intense, each sound he conjured more magical. As was the unnerving thought that occurred once or twice: that she was bleeding and yet so alive.

As if she can read his thoughts, she says:

'You'll have to excuse me, I must freshen up. But I can meet you in your room, if you like?'

Gilbert stands and fishes out his pocket watch, looking at it grimly. 'Anne, it's close to midnight.'

'I'm not tired,' she counters, standing with him. 'I could stay awake all night.'

She looks like she has already. With her mussed up hair and her half clothed body, she is miles away from the girl he found two days ago, shivering under her quilt.

Gilbert fingers the ribbons on her chemise before tying them into a neat little bow.

'You have to answer to Mr Oliver tomorrow, remember?'

'And you have to make the early train to the ferry…'

She slides her hands down his chest as she says this. Grabbing at dangling suspenders and slipping them over his broad, brown shoulders. The look in her eyes goes straight to Gilbert's knees. He swears they are about to buckle.

'Then again… I won't see you again till April.'

Neither of them gets much sleep that night and in the morning Gilbert makes the train with seconds to spare. When he arrives at Redmond he is two days late, his face is yellow, green and brown, and his chemistry paper is still unfinished. This was not the Gilbert Blythe who left for Avonlea two weeks ago; the Island boy who pomaded his hair, saved every penny for his mother's present, and took three firsts in the end of term exams.

His roommates circle him like visitors at a wildcat exhibit; only the boldest dares to ask if Blythe is in some kind of trouble.

Gilbert tosses his trunk on the floor and flops down on his bed.

'Not some kind,' he mutters, and gives them a wink. 'Every kind.'

 **…**

 _* The carnelian ring first mentioned in Anotherlea_

 _* The Dependence Between the Properties…' written by Dmitri Mendeleev around 1870_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter seven**_

Despite Gilbert's reminder that they won't see each other till spring – or perhaps because of it – Anne Shirley is back in his arms two months later. A story she is working on requires a visit to Kingsport in the middle of February, which just happens to coincide with the Redmond Valentine's Ball. She eagerly accepts Gilbert's invitation and cannot wait to show him her new velvet gown. He won't be able to come for her, however. For reasons she dares not explain in a letter, her Kingsport address must be kept secret.

Anne suggests they meet on the steps of the Great Hall on Saturday at 8pm. She also insists Gilbert bring along his closest chum: a shy and gangly fellow who would rather clean out the coops and stalls of his grandfather's menagerie than put on a bow tie and dance. Anne has a theory about this chap and a certain girl in Gilbert's set, and is looking forward to playing matchmaker at the Ball.

Jo is not the sort to care about a ball; nor is he rich enough to afford the dress coat for one. He is standing with Gilbert under the Great Hall's portico when Anne arrives. Going by their animated faces they are having some sort of debate.

Gilbert spots Anne immediately standing at the bottom of the low stone stairs. The final point he was about to make melts like sugar on his tongue.

'Ha, checkmate!' Jo says with triumph.

It doesn't last long. Gilbert's expression makes him peer down the stairs to see what has turned his usually self-assured friend to jelly. One glimpse at the girl's much rhapsodised hair gives Jo his answer.

'I -uh - I…' Gilbert stammers.

'Go to her!' Jo laughs, and prods Gilbert's back.

Gilbert slips off his top hat and dashes down to Anne as she skips up the stairs toward him. They meet at the landing between the two flights, Gilbert grinning like a fool.

'Hello, welcome – you look – Anne, you look…'

How to find the words. She is more bewitching than his memories, more beguiling than his dreams. All eyes and smiles and spirit and... smaller somehow – was she smaller, or thinner? Thinner, yes, her cheekbones are almost as sharp as her chin, but still lovely, so achingly lovely. And he tears his eyes away from Anne's glowing face to admire her new gown. All he sees is her usual black cloak. It looks bulkier than usual, and he steps back to take her in.

'Oh, Gilbert, I'm sorry, I'm still not dressed… I was – well…'

Anne pulls back her cloak to reveal soft emerald velvet and lengths of cream lace rolled up like a blanket. She looks up at Gilbert with her big grey eyes.

'Is there somewhere I could change?'

Jo joins them now. Anne looks up – and up – at a gentle looking fellow with sandy hair and a spectacular nose. He shyly tips his hat her, before telling Gilbert he will meet him inside.

'Oh no you don't,' Gilbert says. 'I let you out of my sight and you'll slip off to the Ark. We're going in together. _All_ of us,' he adds, smiling warmly. He has been looking forward to showing Anne his world for so long, it feels strange and exciting to have her here at last. 'May I introduce my – friend, Miss Anne Shirley. Miss Shirley, this is Jonas Blake.'

'Jo!' Anne erupts and beams up at him. 'It's such a pleasure to meet you at last. Perhaps you can help me out of my predicament. You see I need a place to dress –'

'Dress?' Jo echoes, wrinkling his brow.

'This Ark of yours, for instance, is that the name of your home? Can you tell me is it close by? I wouldn't be more than a –'

'Ah Anne,' Gilbert cuts in, aware of Jo's reddening face.

Jo Blake is the old fashioned kind; he wouldn't even peel his socks off in front of Gilbert after testing if the local pond was still frozen and finding out it wasn't.

'The Ark is Jo's grandfather's house. I doubt…' Gilbert pauses, and his eyes light up. 'Mirabelle!'

'Mirabelle?' Anne and Jo say together. The former mystified, the latter with suspicion.

'Stay right here, Miss Shirley,' says Gilbert. 'You stay too,' he orders Jo. 'I'll be back in two minutes.'

It takes less time than that. Gilbert finds her just inside the hall, surrounded by a flock of moustachioed young men. She plants her hands on her hips as Gilbert strides toward her, and eyes him crossly. Mirabella Cavanagh has seen everything and she is not impressed.

'Who is _that?_ ' she says, elbowing her way through her admirers.

'You look smart tonight, Belle,' Gilbert grins.

'Don't act the innocent. Who is that girl in the shapeless cloak and the adorable elfin face making eyes at Jo?'

Ignoring several filthy looks Gilbert grasps her hand and guides her away.

'That's Anne –' he explains as they make their way down the steps.

' _Your_ Anne?'

There is no time to say more; they reach Jo and Anne to find them deep in conversation. Gilbert is struck with sudden sympathy for Mirabelle, and an uncomfortable pang of his own. They did look rather cosy.

'Good evening Jonas,' Mirabelle purrs, 'how wonderful to see you here. You never go to these things, I had half a mind not to go myself until Gil –'

'So, Mirabelle!' Gilbert interrupts. 'This is my – my… This is Anne.'

'Charmed,' says Mirabelle, and takes out her fan.

It is made of dyed pink ostrich feathers – the sort of thing that would make Josie Pye green. Anne has to smother a laugh.

'I'm looking for somewhere to change,' she says. 'I was working, you see, and didn't have time to dress for the evening so I brought my gown here.'

Jo blushes hard again, Mirabelle's brow wrinkles now.

'How deplorable!' she utters.

Anne looks blank. 'How so?'

'Isn't it obvious?' says Mirabelle, unfurling her fan with a dramatic snap. 'Fancy being made to work on a _Saturday!_ '

The bells in the Redmond clock tower chime twice before the crowds drift away from the dance floor. The last strains of a slow waltz float through the emptying hall and Gilbert and Anne sway slowly. His hand lies lightly on the small of her back and her lips brush over his ear. She is presently engaged in a debate of her own. When Gilbert's ear rises with wry smile she is tempted to give it a nip.

'Then how do you explain the fact Jo asked her for _three_ dances?' she murmurs.

Her breath is hot against his neck. A sweet slow chill goes through his body and he pulls Anne even closer.

'They were Quicksteps,' he says evenly.

'I see,' Anne replies.

Her hand slips from his shoulder and runs down his chest. His shirt is slightly damp and smells of fresh sweat and the cedar-lined trunk, where he keeps his dress shirts and top hat.

'Meaning Jo wanted to avoid dancing with her like… _this?_ ' Her fingers flick over his pectoral muscle and she smiles at his hardening nipples. 'Your shirt is too light for the weather,' she adds, referring to an old joke.

Gilbert stops swaying and grips hard at Anne's waist.

'True,' he admits, his voice almost raw, 'how about I fetch my coat?'

By the time they get to the stone stairs they are running. The quad is crusted with snow but the paths have been swept clear, and these tree lovers easily find a private spot behind a likely oak. They kiss until their lungs feel fit to burst, then pull back, gasping and laughing.

'Was that rude, should we have waited for Jo?' Anne says guiltily.

'He left before the last dance. I think he wanted to be sure he didn't get cornered by –'

'Mirabelle,' Anne cuts in. 'All right, I submit. They're not so very well matched.'

'I tried to tell you in my letters.'

'I guess I prefer my evidence hard.'

Anne gives Gilbert a knowing half smile, which he happily returns.

'Is that so?' he murmurs, pressing against her.

Even with all her layers on he can feel her lithe body meld into his. Her hips roll slowly and another chill goes through him, as she pretends to consider her response.

'Hmm,' she ponders, her grey eyes narrowing. 'Kiss me again, just to make sure…'

The bells chime three before either of them think of stopping. Anne's simple pompadour has half unravelled and Gilbert's tie is somewhere on the frozen ground.

'I should walk you back to your hotel,' he says reluctantly, 'supposing they allow dishevelled young women into their establishment at three in the morning.'

Anne busies herself with her cloak buttons and expertly tucks up her hair.

'Just walk me to the St Johns cemetery,' she breezes, 'I can make my way fine from there.'

'Anne, I'm walking you to your door.'

'As you wish, though I don't know whose door you're expecting me to walk through.'

Gilbert is straightening his collar as Anne speaks and freezes with his elbows stuck out straight.

'You do have somewhere to stay tonight, don't you?'

His mind starts racing, selecting then discarding likely places he could go to at this time of night and beg a bed for Anne. Mirabelle and her crowd would have gone on to The Mad Hatter. Perhaps the Ark might do. There is just the tiny problem of Jo's grandfather, who likes to unleash his Alaskan Malamutes if anyone dares visit past 8pm.

Anne feels about in the slush and retrieves Gilbert's tie.

'It's quite all right. I have no intention of sleeping tonight.'

'Where _are_ you going?'

'Actually,' Anne says, tilting her head,' perhaps you can help?'

A moment later they retrace their steps through the Redmond campus, then across a deserted park to the smart streets of St Johns. Anne leads Gilbert to a well-tended four-storied house with a cast iron gate and a footman at the door.

'You want to get in there?'

Anne looks down at her scuffed wet slippers peeping out from her heavy green gown. She had left her belongings in Mirabelle's room; sturdy boots, notebook, the lot. Of all the unprofessional shortsighted things to do!

Gilbert begins to feel uneasy, and gives Anne a serious stare.

'This is about work, isn't it? What has the Echo asked you to do? Break and enter? I can't believe it of you _–_ '

'But Gilbert, I've been staking this house for almost two days, and made friends with one of the servants. Do you know how difficult that is? I can't waste this lead. Not now.'

'It's just a story. Are you telling me you're willing to risk your character, risk arrest, for a _story_ –'

'Shhh!' Anne hisses, peering over his shoulder. 'The front door opened.'

The two of them crouch behind the neighbour's hedge and watch as a footman holds the door open for a woman in a tall hat, followed by another older woman clutching her shabby shawl.

'Hmm,' Anne breathes, and asks to see Gilbert's watch. 'The kitchen boy said she wouldn't be leaving till six; his sister is a maid here and had to spend all evening packing for a guest who has an early morning train.' Expecting Gilbert's next question, she adds, 'I told the boy I was hawking cheap tickets to a show I knew his sister wanted to see.'

'How did you come to know that?'

'Overheard her talking with the coalman – they're courting,' she explains, and then, 'that's strange. Their carriage isn't heading to the station. Gilbert quick, let's see if we can keep up.'

Anne tugs hard on his arm; it's like tugging on the trunk of a tree.

Under the lamplight Gilbert can make out rings of green appearing her eyes. Too bad, he's not moving until she tells him what is going on.

'Who are they, exactly, these women you're following?'

'She's getting away!' Anne cries.

Gilbert remains unmoved. She exhales loudly and crosses her arms.

'It's Miss Hamilton.'

'That's why you were sent to Kingsport?'

'Gilbert please. I've worked so hard on this story, her carriage is nearing the end of the street.'

Gilbert follows Anne's gaze and watches the carriage round the corner and head left up Clovis Avenue. There are only narrow lanes in that direction, with smaller less distinguished houses. Wherever Miss Hamilton is going at four in the morning it isn't to her train.

'You'll never catch up with her,' he says, handing Anne his scarf. 'Not in that gown and especially not in those shoes.' Anne looks down at the sodden slippers currently pinching two of her toes. 'Hamilton's carriage was drawn by four horses,' Gilbert continues. 'If I can't see her, I can certainly follow her trail through the snow. Would that work?'

Anne nods, vigorously, then looks after the carriage again.

'I need to know where she is going and the identity of the woman with her and – anything, _anything_ you can discover would be a great help to me.'

'Give me two hours – no three –' he says, and he pulls out a ribbon from inside his shirt. On it is a brass key, glinting softly. 'This is to the main door of the Redmond library – don't ask me how I got it – just take it, and head for the archives. There's a spot you can rest near the only window in the place. I'll meet you there at,' and he glances at his watch, 'a quarter to eight.' He pulls Anne close and knots his scarf around her neck. 'Can you find the library without me?' The look on Anne's face answers that. 'Then go sweetheart, and please don't tarry.'

Anne squeezes his hand as a brief farewell before she heads back toward the park.

'Be careful, Gilbert, and stay out of sight, that woman is not what you think.'

Staying out of sight is not Gilbert's problem, it's catching up that has him concerned. By the time he reaches the top of the street the carriage is turning into another. There hasn't been a fall of snow for several days and Miss Hamilton's carriage tracks have merged with all the others. When Gilbert reaches the next street he nearly gives up, until he spies a curl of steam. The pile of fresh horse manure tells him to take the second left. He sees it then, the huge black carriage parked outside a neat but modest house.

The driver has already tucked his chin into his collar and is taking a much needed snooze. Miss Hamilton and the older woman must have gone inside. After another quick glance at the driver Gilbert leaps a low fence and heads to the side of the house. There looks to be light coming from two windows, but there is no chance to get to them. The front door opens and the women he saw at the St Johns house appear; the one with the tall hat peering up the street.

Gilbert leans against a holly hedge, the leaves prick the back of his head but he barely feels it, his ears keen for any word these women might say.

'You assure me you sent for Dr Langley?'

'Yes, Miss Hamilton. Left word at his residence 'fore I came to you. There's a ball on at the college, his housekeeper told me that's where he was.'

Miss Hamilton sighs. 'If the Doctor has not returned by now, we may rightly assume he won't return at all. We're on our own, Tess,' she says grimly, and turns to go indoors.

As they enter a desperate groan can be heard from inside, one that could only have been made by a woman. The sound hits Gilbert like a blow to the gut. Someone in that cottage is suffering. No matter what Anne said about being careful, he knows he must try and help.

His heart starts to beat _I can do this, I can do this…_ and he takes a few deep breaths. Then repositioning his top hat and buttoning his coat, he walks to the front door and gives it a knock.

It is answered almost immediately. Tess takes his hat from him, and eagerly shows him inside. Miss Hamilton is not so welcoming, and even less credulous. She comes into the hallway and looks Gilbert up and down. Her hat is gone, her face pale and creased; Gilbert is sure he can see flecks of blood on her hand.

Miss Hamilton catches him eyeing her wrist and folds her arms, defensively.

'A little young for a doctor, wouldn't you say?'

Another groan sounds from the room she had been in and she leads Gilbert into the parlour. It is dark inside, lit by a dying fire. That she doesn't bother lighting a lamp tells Gilbert he shouldn't expect to stay. His mouth goes dry and he clears his throat, trying to stall for time. This doctor she is waiting on had been to the Valentine's Ball, and so had he. If he can provide evidence of this he may be able to prove their connection.

Quickly, Gilbert unbuttons his coat revealing his dress coat, wing tip collar and bow tie. The moment he does so Miss Hamilton relaxes; she almost wilts into a chair.

'You've come from the Ball, you're a student, I suppose.'

'I am,' says Gilbert, truthfully.

He is useless at lying and relieved he doesn't have too. Stretching the truth on the other hand…

'Miss Hamilton, I am confident I can help.'

'Langley was already drunk, no doubt… well I suppose his pupil will have to do.'

Sighing again Miss Hamilton ushers her guest through a bedroom door. Gilbert barely has time to prepare himself for what lies beyond. This room is also dimly lit, furnished with a single bed and a spindle-back chair. Under the covers he can make out a figure he assumes is the woman who made the moans. But this isn't what grabs his attention. Most notable, and most shocking, is an operating table in a corner of the room. Beneath lies a bucket and some grey looking towels.

Gilbert closes his eyes to the sight and turns to the mound quivering under a pile of blankets. He lays the back of his hand on her cheek.

'Where does it hurt?' he says.

She is not a woman, but a girl, a year or two younger than Anne. Her plump face is waxy and anxious, which is not unexpected. When Miss Mawsey turned up last Christmas she looked just the same, but that's where their similarities end. This girl's hair is thick and well kept, and she has large pearls fixed to her lobes. As she pushes Gilbert away she reveals pale dimpled hands and fingernails that are polished and clean.

It dawns on Gilbert that this unassuming cottage is probably not her home. Nor is Tess her mother, or she would surely be by her side. His suspicion is confirmed when the girl finally speaks, her haughty voice revealing long hours of elocution to disguise her Island accent.

She tugs her blanket against her slender body and gives him a spiteful glare.

'Where does it hurt? You imbecile. Where do you _think_ it hurts?'

...

 _*carnelian ring first mentioned in Anotherlea_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter eight**_

'So what did you do?' Anne asks him.

She scruffs the short hair at his nape with her hand, then slips down his back, moving in comforting circles.

Gilbert shrugs and shakes his head, unsure if he is trying to remember or wanting to forget.

'I asked for cohosh.'

'You mean fairy's candle?'

Gilbert nods, absently. 'They didn't have it. Nor clover, Easter lily, yarrow, they didn't even have feverfew.'

'Let me guess,' Anne says, 'they had plenty of gin and Mrs Winslow's Soothing syrup.'

For the first time in hours Gilbert cracks a smile.

'I forgot you grew up round here… with people like that.'

He is thinking of Tess as he says this, who was crouched over the dying fire in the parlour when he went looking for her, draining the last drops of a sickly sweet tonic laced with opium in order to steady her nerves. He was brusque and unsympathetic at the time, but he regrets that now. Tess had been doing the best she could, and doubtless felt panicked and scared. He understands better why Anne always maintained that the people who cared for her when she was orphaned "meant to be good." He used to wonder why she put it like that, if she was hiding some ugly truth. He knows better now, and it comes as no surprise that Anne worked this out long before he did.

Presently, she smiles at him. He can tell she wants to say more, but he doesn't prod her when she simply asks:

'What did you end up giving the girl?'

'Miss _Smith_?' says Gilbert, wryly. 'I tried to find something to ease her cramps. I was in a bedroom hunting out a blanket to wrap round a brick I had heated by the fire, when Langley arrived…'

He pauses then and remembers the moment when he thought he might split in two; one half of him wanting to flee, the other knowing there was no way he could leave this girl in the care of a drunk. In the end he decided to brazen it out and greeted Dr Langley like a colleague. The man had no idea who Gilbert was, but he played along, either because he was too intoxicated to care or had even more to lose.

'He sat in the chair and ordered me about because his hands were shaking with the drink. I had to make up that many opium powders I wanted to shake him myself. I was so angry Anne, so poisoned by it – I thought I would never be clean.'

He pulls away from her as he says this, not wanting his sweet girl anywhere near him right now. She does not fight him, her eyes look right into his, and she slowly tilts her head.

'You hear that, Gilbert? Church bells.' She stands up and smooths down her crumpled gown. 'Come with me now, come to service. We can talk more after that.'

For the first time since he was sixteen Gilbert is going to church without shaving first. He can still clean his teeth, however. He keeps a bottle of seawater, a toothbrush and a comb in a sugar bag he has stuffed into a hole in the arm of the sofa. This simple sofa has become Gilbert's second bedroom, where he comes to catch a few hours sleep after a night shift at the Daily News. The old stone windowsill nearby attesting to the many times he missed his dorm's curfew, etched as it is with a line of Hippocrates in Gilbert's neat, upright script.

 _Where there is a love of man there is a love of healing_

He has his toothbrush dangling from his mouth when Anne comes up behind him and presses her cheek against his.

'Thank you,' she says, tenderly.

'For wha –'

'You know what,' she tells him. 'Now stop all your preening and come. I know you're used to being the most handsome man in the room, but take it from me, Gil, God doesn't care what you look like.'

Gilbert cracks another smile, but this one is short lived. His bristly jaw and unoiled hair seem to trumpet to the pulpit what he feels in his heart. He too had done the best he could – so why did it feel so wrong? He wishes he had never gone there, that he had no knowledge of what was going on in that house. The anger inside him shows no sign of abating, though he doesn't blame Anne, but himself. It was pride that made him chase that carriage and insinuate himself into Miss Smith's room. He wanted to be a hero the way Fred was a hero. Now he feels he would give anything to go back to last night and make a different choice.

After service he asks Anne to wait while he makes a time to talk with the minister. He and Jo often pop into the Manse after service – and not just because of the lavish morning teas. The Reverend presses young Blythe to stay (if Gilbert's furrowed brow didn't give him away, his unshaven face did) but the offer is declined. During their brief exchange Gilbert had spotted Anne leaving in a hurry, he just hopes she hasn't gone too far.

He finds her in a sheltered spot by a hawthorn hedge with Jo, who appears to be doing all of the talking for once. As Gilbert approaches Jo retreats, and strides off in the direction of the Manse.

'First of the maple cakes today,' he hollers, 'if you're lucky I'll save one for you!'

Anne tugs at her scarf, but it's pointless, she can't prevent her chin jutting out.

'Before you say another word,' says Gilbert, 'I'm no Catholic.'

'Well if you weren't confessing to Mr Naseby, what were you doing?'

Gilbert is still for a moment; aware of the looks from, it must be admitted, mostly female congregants gathering outside the church. His old self would have given them a wink, but not this morning, not now. Instead he offers Anne his elbow and directs her across the street to some open parkland that ends at a small stretch of shore. There are gulls and other seabirds gliding overhead, and the air carries the faint scent of the sea.

'Shall we go for some coffee?' he says.

Anne's chin juts out another inch.

'I don't want coffee. I want to know what you said to the Reverend.'

'This is not an interview, Anne.'

Anne starts, pink spots growing on her cheeks.

'I don't mean to sound that way, I just…'

'No more. _None_ –' he orders, and pushes his finger against her lips.

Anne goes even pinker and Gilbert has to remind himself he is in public, because all he wants to do right now is place his lips where his finger has been.

'Coffee first.'

Anne nods, then adds, 'and pancakes. After chatting with Jo I am suddenly craving maple syrup.'

An hour later she is licking it off her fingers and causing Gilbert to remember yet again that they are in a public setting. Part of him is reluctant to break the spell he has found himself in: knees touching, ankles entwined as they share a stack of pancakes at a tiny corner table. It is all he hoped her visit might be. Unfortunately it has become much more than that.

'This story about Miss Hamilton, what exactly are you planning to write?'

Anne shifts in her chair uncomfortably.

'I know what I _expected_ to write, but this…'

She rests her chin upon her hand and attempts to stare out a window that is steamed over.

'I don't need to ask that this go no further –'

'That depends,' says Gilbert. 'It does,' he adds when she scowls at him. 'Anne, I witnessed a crime last night. This isn't some scandal, this was against the law.'

'I didn't know you would follow them inside. I doubt I would have gone in myself if I suspected such a thing.'

Gilbert returns her scowl, but this one is mocking. He finds it hard to believe Anne would have simply dropped this; the girl he knows is all or nothing.

Anne sets her coffee cup back on its saucer and sits back in her chair.

'Let me tell you what I did think, what evidence I gathered, and then you might believe me,' she says. 'As you know, Mayhew and Hamilton were linked by their involvement with Queens, so I asked Diana to do a little digging and discovered three students left Queens in the last year under mysterious circumstances. Female students, all from wealthy families. Their teachers and friends cannot say for certain where they are, yet their parents still pay their tuition. Mayhew's daughter is one of the missing girls, the same man who's been having secret meetings with –'

'Hamilton.'

'Exactly. They had one further meeting that I know of. Soon after it was announced in the Gazette that Hearth and Home had suddenly managed to meet their fundraising goal, and were opening another chapter in Halifax. The next day I got a tip that Hamilton was leaving, not for Halifax, but Kingsport. Mayhew's daughter was with her, though I never managed a sighting. I suspected she was pregnant and her father wanted her hidden away before it became obvious. I thought Miss Hamilton was using her connection with Hearth and Home to find a family for the child. I wanted to believe the best of her, Gilbert, but at the same time I had to be sure the baby was going to be adopted, not sold. That's why I was desperate. Can you understand now why I couldn't give up? Even though the chance was a slim one, I had to follow this story all the way to the end.'

'And what would you have done if you found out Hamilton was finding new homes for these babies, you wouldn't have published it, surely?'

'No,' Anne says, quietly, 'of course I wouldn't. But I didn't know that at the time. I thought I had discovered a baby selling ring, that I would finally prove myself as a journalist.'

'Oliver still got you on the Ladies Page, has he?'

Anne sighs. 'Writing up who wore what to the Earnshaw's christening, or the Dalgliesh wedding breakfast.'

'Not quite what you were imagining when you became a cadet?'

'Since missing those days when I was ill Oliver is determined to keep me tied to a desk.'

'If that's so then why are you here, why has he given this story to you?'

Anne thumps her fist on the little round table, her grey eyes ringed with green.

'He didn't _give_ it to me. I found it, and when I came to him with evidence he gave me leave to go.'

'And what's your headline,' Gilbert counters, 'the hypocrisy of Hearth and Home providing wealthy families with backstreet abortions?'

It's the first time either of them have uttered the word. As soon as he says it Gilbert wants to be sick, and pushes his half eaten pancake away.

'I'm sorry – forgive me, that was low.'

Gilbert clutches Anne's hand and squeezes tight, relieved when she returns it. The pressure is gentle, but not half hearted. Whatever she is battling, it isn't him.

'When you asked me if I would risk my character for the sake of a story, I didn't show it at the time, but it stung me to my core. I don't know what's come over me, Gilbert, why I care for so much Oliver's approval. When he shot down my idea about the column, then gave me an ultimatum about starting at the Echo, I simply obeyed him without asking why. I'm forever jumping through hoops for him – I never have time for Diana or Mr Keats, I never have time for sleep…'

Anne is drawing her thumbnail through a pool of maple syrup as she speaks; when she looks up her eyes are brimming with tears.

'I saw what you carved into your windowsill, and I admired you so much, because you truly want to help people – and I sent you to a crime scene. If the police had turned up, Gilbert, if you had been there – if I robbed you of your dreams, if I lost you…'

Gilbert shudders as the thought of it; the sly whispers he endured in Avonlea would be nothing to that. But Gilbert Blythe is not the sort to dwell on might have beens. He lifts Anne's hand from her plate and guides her thumb to his mouth, kissing the syrup from her skin.

'Lose me? Not a chance,' he says, and presses his thumb to hers. 'Remember?'

Anne nods, and she smiles at him gratefully.

'I remember.'

 **...**

Beyond the steamed up windows sleet is falling, and when they pay their bill and step outside they consider going back in. There are not many places a Fresher can take an unchaperoned girl on a bitterly cold Sunday. They might go to his common room, or pop into Mirabelle's, but he is not sure he could stand such company right now. He is beginning to feel bone tired and he knows Anne feels the same; still an unexpected lightness fills his chest when Anne suggests they go to the Manse.

'Are you sure?' Gilbert asks her, 'I'd try our luck at the library but the Quakers often use it when the weather is this foul.'

'Why's that?' Anne asks, nestling against his arm.

'Their meeting house is on one of those small islands,' he explains.

They reach the summit of a steep street as he says this, and he points across the harbour to a chain of islands being battered by a dark grey sea.

'I hope the weather improves for my crossing tomorrow.'

'I hope it gets worse,' Gilbert jokes. 'In fact I won't be happy till every train and ferry is cancelled for a week. Two weeks – three weeks!'

'I'll be eighteen in three weeks,' says Anne mildly.

Something about that statement makes them stop. And even though the sleet strikes them at right angles and the wind claws their skin, they cannot make their legs move for the want they have for each other. Gilbert slips off his gloves and cups Anne's chilled pink face. Her eyes are huge and her lashes are dark with rain and he loves her, he loves her, God help him he loves her… His mouth brushes over the bridge of her nose and the freckles he adores.

'I wish I could touch you everywhere…'

Anne licks her lips, craning her neck in hopes of a stolen kiss. Her body pulsing with a growing want as his fingers caress the back of her neck. Her soft red hair is warm beneath her hat, and she leans even closer toward him. Then a matron wheeling a perambulator aims it straight between them, Anne steps back so suddenly she almost slips on a wet cobblestone.

'Manners!' says the matron.

'Yes, you need some,' Gilbert mutters, then offering Anne his arm they head toward the Manse.

Randal Naseby is a portly fellow, and his house has a similar feel with plush drapes, over stuffed sofas and piles of cushions on every surface. A runny drop of maple syrup glints on his tie as he welcomes Gilbert and Anne into his study.

'Ah,' he says, 'two drowned mice. Come in, come in and get yourself warm.'

They throw off their wet coats and hats and stand in front of the fireplace, which is sending out so much heat the candles on the mantel are beginning to wilt. Anne is close to wilting herself, and feels her eyelids droop. The warmth and the softness surrounding her have become a sort of cocoon. She longs to rest her head for a moment, and not long after curling up on the sofa does just that.

The reverend notices straight away; this is not the first waif who has come to him for shelter, and he ushers Gilbert out of the room. When Gilbert enters the study a good two hours later, he is expecting to wake her, and is surprised to find Anne poring over a dusty looking ledger.

'Oh Gilbert come see!' she says, breathlessly and looks up at him, eyes wide with excitement.

Her hand shoots out and Gilbert takes it gladly, as he joins her at the reverend's desk.

'Mr Naseby wants to know if you would like a cup of tea, now what am I looking at?' he says.

A red curl dangles over Anne's brow and kisses the tip of her nose. She brushes it away impatiently, then drops her finger to a neat line of script.

'What do you see, just… there?'

Gilbert leans forward and begins reading a line of some old fashioned copperplate. It isn't the Reverend's hand, but it has something to do with the church, because printed at the tops of each page are the words, St Columba's Parish, 1864. Beneath is a simple grid filled in with men's names, women's names, their dates of birth, home addresses, occupations, and finally the dates of their marriages.

'This is a marriage registry. Why on earth are you –' and he stops, realising what Anne is pointing at. 'Walter James… _Shirley?_ Walter Shirley! Do you mean to tell me you've found your father?'

Anne nods, unable to speak at first, then whispering, 'And my mother…'

'Bertha Anne Willis.'

'Isn't that a beautiful name?'

Gilbert finds himself equally tongue-tied; he had always known Anne as Marilla's girl. To see the names of her people writ large does curious things to his heart. The anger he thought he would never shake melts like snow before a fire and a wordless joy spreads over him. All he can do is nod and grin.

'Look there, Gilbert, it's just like she said. Father was a teacher, and so was Mother.'

Gilbert is not looking at their occupations but their birthdates. Miss Willis couldn't have taught for long, she was married at eighteen. Eighteen. There was that number again, and he swallows hard and tries to find his voice.

'Who do you mean by she, when you said it was just like _she_ said?'

'Mrs Thomas. She lived near my parents and took me in after they died.'

Anne traces her finger over the page, as though it is something living. That one stray curl has fallen again, but she doesn't see it this time. Her eyes are full of stars.

'Anne?'

'Hmm?'

'Let's go there – to Bolingbroke, to see the house where you were born.'

Anne comes out of her daze with a start.

'What – now? Bolingbroke is twenty miles away.'

'Well then,' says Gilbert, beaming, 'we haven't a moment to lose.'

They make the two o'clock train and sit in the dining car. The click of the tracks thrums through Gilbert's body and almost sends him to sleep, until Anne waves a cup of coffee under his nose.

'Cinnamon and cream, thank you,' he says and rubs his eyes.

His swollen eyelids make his lashes curl, and the giver of that coffee feel equal measures guilt and desire.

'Sugar too,' Anne adds. She flips the tail of his coat from the seat and tucks up next to him. 'So, will Mr Naseby go to the police?'

'He wouldn't tell me, just said I'd done the right thing, which was all I could expect of myself. But I got the impression he wouldn't approve if I meddled any further. He has many connections in Kingsport, and he certainly knows Hearth and Home.'

'That's something I don't understand,' Anne says. 'Miss Hamilton is so vocal about the sanctity of motherhood and the evils of being unchaste and impure. Her entire life appears to be devoted to a rigid moral life, and yet she does this. It doesn't even seem that secret, Mr Mayhew didn't meet her by chance. All the well connected families are in on it, I know they are, yet they keep donating to a cause that promotes the very opposite.'

Such hypocrisy doesn't surprise Gilbert, and he rubs his cheek, remembering the beating he took from Davy, who preened in his uniform like a man of honour yet had no scruples slandering Anne. He doesn't have to bring this up to make his point, however. Instead he mentions his mother and the work she did in Avonlea. People often came to her in desperation, and as soon as they got what they wanted they gossiped behind her back. The world was full of folks who pretended high-mindedness whilst doing the very opposite.

'They love your mother, really,' Anne argues, 'I know they do. I've seen it.'

Gilbert considers this, then the miraculous girl sitting next to him. He had never known Anne to give into bitterness and she isn't about to now. Besides, his mother is beloved in a strange sort of way, and Margaret's attack proved it. There had been the initial outcry against Margaret, of course, but most people enjoyed being outraged once and while, Gilbert didn't expect that to last. Then there had been the offers of help, to find Margaret, fetch his father, and nurse his mother overnight. Regular visits and weekly meals had only just lessened, but something more curious grew. People missed Ro Blythe's wisdom, her home visits, her brews. Dora tried to fill the breach, but she lacked his mother's touch. Rowena Blythe had something almost magical about her, and as the months went by it looked like it might never come back.

Ro had been advised to have an amputation, which she fervently resisted. Anne and Gilbert talk on this for the remainder of the journey, not that Gilbert wants to particularly, but at least it will keep him awake.

'I'm beginning to think she could out-stubborn you,' he sighs. 'She says she could never birth babies, or sew up a wound, or make up her brews if she has one hand.'

'But she hasn't attended any births, nor brewed up anything since she was hurt. At least that's what Dora writes.'

'Ma says she's still learning to work with her injury, but I know very well it still pains her. I can't talk any sense into her, nor can Pa, or Mr Allan. Even Mrs Lynde put her oar in –'

'Ohhh…' Anne breathes, 'things must be dire if Rachel Lynde can't make a dent.'

She is hoping to make Gilbert smile; instead he looks away and stares the window. Trees give way to buildings as the train enters Bolingbroke station. There is no sleet here, just thick sheets of rain and he hunts out the umbrella Mr Naseby loaned them. He can sense Anne's eyes on him, and something else he can't ignore: the pull he feels toward Avonlea.

It's almost constant now. At first he tried to tell himself it was homesickness, weakness, sentimentality, and he cast it from him like a stone in his shoe. But the stone has become a rock now. Not a niggle so much as an embarrassment, because it makes no sense. His mother has Dora after all, and Pa; the Fletchers, the Gillis', the Wrights… Ma wouldn't thank him for going back, not when she saved all that money for his studies.

The girl next to him would understand this better than anyone, but if tells her he knows what she will say: that he must go home, and he does not want to; he isn't ready to give up his Redmond life. No, it was better to put up with the weight of this worry, at least until the end of term. Summer will decide it, when he returns to the Island. To the land, the farm, the work, the cottage…

As though Anne can hear thoughts she stands and says:

'Well Gilbert, I guess it's time to go home.'

They splurge on a cab and head straight to an out of the way part of Bolingbroke, where the trees are sparse and the gutters are overrunning. Their driver knows Windy Wend; his dear ol' Ma lived there afore the fire.

'Fire?' Anne exclaims, 'which fire?'

' _Which_ fire?' Gilbert can't help cutting in. 'How many fires did you have at this Wend?'

Anne purses her lips for a moment.

'I only lived there until I was eight, but I remember three – or four if you count Buster Franck setting the hen house alight.'

'Burned hisself in the end,' says the driver, not sounding the least bit sorry. 'He liked a blaze, did Buster. Gunner in that Prussian war, 'gainst the French I think it was –'

'But the fire you mentioned,' Anne presses him, 'is there much of Windy Wend left?'

'See for yerself,' the driver says, tugging on his reins.

The horse is pulled to a stop and Anne leaps from the buggy before Gilbert can open the umbrella.

He watches her stand in the middle of the street and approaches her carefully, placing the umbrella over her head. Anne doesn't move. Not because she is shocked or sad, but because she is struck with wonder.

'This is the street! Windy Wend! The Thomas' lived at number nine… and my parents across the road. It had a lilac tree – there it is!' she points, and dashes to an overgrown bush wavering like seaweed under the deluge of rain.

'We should find some shelter,' Gilbert says.

'Let's knock on my old front door.'

They walk up an overgrown path to a little yellow house. The paint is peeling, and the front door is hanging on one hinge. All it takes is two taps and it tumbles to the floor.

Gilbert waves away the dust and grimaces.

'No one home I guess,' and the two step inside, peering left and right.

'Hello!' Anne calls. 'Is there anyone here? It looks like this house is abandoned.'

'This is definitely your house?' he says, peeking into an empty parlour.

There is a half chewed sofa cushion on the floor, and some yellowing newsprint. Everything else, the sconces, the curtain rails, even the lintels in the fireplace, has been removed.

'My only memory is of a yellow house with a lilac tree. I used to look out from the Thomas' attic window and stare at it for hours. No one went near it. Everyone said it was bad luck, haunted, filled with spirits – I would stay up past my bedtime and try to catch a glimpse of one. Sometimes I felt like a ghost myself…'

Gilbert slips his arm around Anne and she turns slowly, a drop of rain sliding down her chin. He wipes it gently and offers her a smile.

'I'm fine, Gilbert, truly, I –'

They both turn suddenly as a hunched up figure bowls through the front door.

'Out, out, the lot of you!' shouts a woman, and she bustles into the room.

She carries a shovel in her hand, which she brandishes like a sword. Her face goes white when she sees them, a smart young man and pretty young woman with enormous grey eyes and a candid stare that sets her entrails to ice.

'Bless me,' she mutters, and takes a step back. 'Dear Lord, I meant no harm.'

Anne takes a step toward her, arms outstretched, her face twisted in a little smile; not quite able to believe that this grimy crone could be the same woman who used to boast of 'bringing Anne up by hand.'

'Mrs Thomas…' she murmurs, and then softer, 'Mrs Tom?'

The woman falls to her knees.

'Selkie's child…' she utters, and faints upon the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter nine**_

There is now the small matter of getting a two hundred pound woman back to her house. Gilbert suggests using her shovel to lever her up; Anne rolls her eyes. She places the stained cushion under her head and vainly wishes for Mirabelle's ostrich fan, while Gilbert hunts out some water.

After a fruitless search he goes outside and fills his hands with rain. He returns to find Anne speaking softly to the woman splayed out on the floor, and smoothing her short matted hair. Anne is a natural nurse, Gilbert had seen that with Marilla; it touches his heart the way she shows the same tenderness to this woman now.

'You came back,' she mutters, 'Ursie said you'd gone to sea.'

'I did in way,' Anne says, gently, 'I crossed one to live on an Island. How did Ursie come to know that?'

Mrs Tom shakes her head as though the question was beneath her.

'Let's not bother with all that now… You!' she barks, glaring at Gilbert, 'Stop yer gawking and get me up.'

Gilbert raises his eyebrows at Anne and pulls the old woman to her feet. She insists on inviting them back to her house. Hovel is a more accurate description. At first Gilbert thinks the floorboards have been pulled up, that beneath his boots are wet dirt floors. He quickly discovers he is treading through years of built up mud and leaves. The kitchen is no better; every surface is crammed with jars, crocks, animal bones, rags and newspapers. The smell is even worse, but Anne doesn't seem to notice. She looks about the dingy room like a child trying to piece a puzzle together.

'I used to sleep there when I was very young,' she says, pointing to a rusted stove, 'in a drawer with a pillow stuffed inside.'

Mrs Tom gives Anne a gummy grin.

'You were my wee kitty cat, a real ginger puss. Got that from your Pa, you did. Now there was an ugly fella…'

Gilbert winces, expecting Anne to pounce, or give Mrs Tom that schoolmarmish look. Instead Anne affects not to hear and searches her surroundings. A moment later she has found three cups of various sizes and blows the dust out of each one.

'Do you think you could find something to collect some water? We should make the poor dear a cup of tea.'

Gilbert peers into a rusted caddy and the tealeaf matter at the bottom of it. He doesn't dare look into the milk can giving off an odour of old cheese.

'I spied some rosemary and pine needles near the gate,' Gilbert says, then adds, 'give me that pot too, I'll try to get it clean.'

After her fourth cup of fresh herb tea Mrs Tom curls up in her rotting armchair and begins to snore. It's the first time in twenty years that someone else has cared of her, and gratitude shines on her mottled face.

Anne too, is smiling, but this one is more thoughtful, as she cradles a miraculous gift in her hand. After cup number two Mrs Tom had ordered Gilbert to climb the pile of rubbish in the back room and retrieve a grimy tin.

'Don't know if you want 'em, but they were your Ma and Pa's.'

Anne had opened the tin with trembling hands and found letters, six of them, wrapped together with an old length of lace.

'That's pretty, that is,' said Mrs Tom. 'I think you'll find the fancy work's mine.'

The woman went to snatch it from her. Anne shut the lid with a clang.

'Temper, temper!' Mrs Tom rebuked, but it was half hearted.

Gilbert had begun to notice that while the old woman didn't mind ordering him about, she seemed almost fearful of Anne.

On the train ride home he asks her about it – though he has half a mind not to. Anne doesn't have stars so much as whole universes in her eyes, as she caresses the old envelopes in her bare hands. She can't bring herself to read them yet; just holding them is enough. Gilbert has to ask a second time before he gets a response.

'Hmm,' Anne smiles, partly with tender reminiscence, partly with guilt. 'I may have had something to do with that.'

'Do tell… _Selkie's child_.'

'Oh you heard that, did you? The Thomas' believed my mother was a selkie –'

'One of those mythical seal creatures, that take human form when they touch land?'

Anne nods. 'Mother loved the sea, at least they told me she was forever wondering to the shore and staring at it mournfully, even in a storm. But what really set tongues wagging, what no one on Windy Wend could understand, is why so beautiful a woman would marry a man like my father. Everyone said he was ugly; pasty-faced, copper-topped, freckly and stick-thin –'

Gilbert tries to suppress a smile; Josie Pye often said the same thing about Anne.

'Mother… Bertha,' Anne adds, shyly trying out the name, 'was a reputed beauty, with eyes… well I can't say for certain what her eyes were like, but the people I grew up with said she had eyes that saw the stains on your soul and made you burn with shame. All they knew was that she used to be a teacher, she had no family, no connections, and here she was married – young too – to a penniless teacher and with a face full of freckles and a beard that was redder than a fox's pelt. They used to say he must have stolen her seal skin when she was sunning herself on the shore and tricked her into becoming his wife.'

'Did your folks know about this?'

Anne shrugs. 'I don't know. People may have invented the story after they died. It certainly affected the way the way I was raised. The Thomas children had this chant: Ugly as her papa, scary as her mama, Anne Sealy, Anne Sealy, go back into the sea…'

'That's so cruel.'

'Yes,' Anne says, matter of factly. 'I suppose it was, but I didn't dwell on that at the time. To me it was a tool I could use, a weapon to throw back at them. Oh, I could be a terrible minx, pretending to cast spells and falling into fits. They really thought it was in my power to curse them – I _did_ curse them. The tempers I fell into! When that happened they would bundle me into the attic. Mr Thomas had only just bolted the door when his heart gave out and he died. You can imagine how frightened they were of me then. Mrs Tom was catatonic. It was her eldest girl, Ursie, who sent me away. She did laundry for the Hammonds –'

'The family with all the twins?'

'Mmm,' Anne murmurs, colour fleeing her face. 'Mrs Hammond did _not_ believe in selkies. Said she would beat the witchcraft out of me if I dared to tell such lies. But I think she was a little afraid. At least she didn't box her youngest's ears when he blamed me for Mr Hammond's death two years later. There was no mention of lies then; they couldn't get me out of the house quick enough. No one would have me. They all believed I was cursed. I thought I was cursed, myself – especially when I ended up at the asylum. It means 'safe place',' she says, clicking her tongue like Marilla. 'Oh Gilbert, those six months at Hopetown asylum were far, far worse than life with the Hammonds. It was a prison in every way, a prison for children. I learned early on if I had to choose, I would rather be free than safe.'

It's no surprise that last word is filling Gilbert's mouth. He wants to protect her; build a wall around her, but he also sees how wrong it would be. Anne cannot be held unless she is doing the holding. Her spirit will never be tamed.

'What – what is it?'

Anne tilts her head and studies him. Gilbert shakes his head. How to tell her what their oath truly means to him: that a girl like her would tie herself to him, love him, choose him.

'I'm just thinking.'

'Yes, I can see that, you have this little crinkle between your brows, just… there.' Anne touches his face and smiles softly. 'I hope I didn't make you melancholy with my sad little tale. We all have our sorrows. I never lost a sister, or watched my parents battle years of grief like you did. I was never thwarted in love like Diana and Fred. I wasn't forced to give up school like Dora, or live on the streets like her brother, yet look what we have made of our lives.'

With the mention of Davy Gilbert snaps out of his fog, and vigour and brightness are his once more.

'I often ponder that, with Jo and Mr Naseby: whether we strive to do great deeds to escape suffering, or because of it. I think the latter don't you?'

Anne shifts her head to Gilbert's shoulder and rests there momentarily.

'I know you do,' she says softly, 'and that is why I love you.'

That night in the dank corridor of the Yarmouth Street Hotel Miss Shirley and Mr Blythe find they cannot say goodnight. What is it about doorways, about dark places, that makes them cling to each other like light to the sun?

Gilbert is sure Anne has an answer but her rosy lips are too busy right this minute laying a trail of warm kisses on the brown skin at the back of his neck.

'Ask me in…' Gilbert murmurs.

'They lock the hotel doors at ten.'

'Be a shame if they locked me in too.'

He takes her downy lobe between his lips and deftly applies his tongue.

'Ohh when you do that…' she gasps.

'Mmm… what happens when I do that?'

His mouth lingers on her neck, and he breathes her in, the smell of summer, and with it all the heat of that season.

'It _is_ only eight o'clock' Anne concedes, and turns the key without turning around.

Gilbert picks up Anne's few belongings and follows her into her room. He couldn't tell you what was in there excepting the bed, which is narrow and high, with a red velvet counterpane and white lace pillow. He drops her bag, lifts Anne in his arms and lays her upon it.

It is not her weight he notices, but his own. He feels heavy, every part of him; burdened with the strength of the love he feels, and when he lowers himself onto her body he swears he is being absorbed. Falling, falling, like rain upon the earth, her clothes and his drop to the floor. Anne's thighs are soft and wide and bear him gladly. There is only the thinnest of garments between them; he can scarcely feel them for the heat of her skin burning into his. He swears he has never loved her as much as he loves her right this minute, but how many times has he told himself that? It is a love that refuses to be contained; it grows daily, hourly, till now he is bursting, filled with her, and longing to fill her. He need only shift their underwear and there would be nothing left between them. He is so close, so close, and the sound that comes as he grinds his hips against hers is as aching and urgent as any sound made by man.

Anne's eyes are closed, her face flushed and damp with his kisses, coppery curls stick to her cheeks and her breaths are quick and shallow.

'I want you… I want you so much, please stay with me tonight.'

It hits him like that rain, in a downpour that threatens to drown him, what it would mean to be joined with her now. This was aeons from the curious desire he felt when they first kissed, miles from his fear of losing her, which he felt in the snow cave last year. This was… well it was monumental; there was no other way to describe it. No other way to comprehend this revelation than as the huge weight that it was.

'Can we stop,' he urges, 'just for a moment?'

There is no hurt or confusion in Anne's eyes, she merely says, 'Of course.'

Gilbert rolls off her body and slips the fallen pillow beneath her head, before resting his on his hand. Her small oval face looks up at him tenderly, and she licks her lips and waits. The sureness he felt when he asked if they could stop suddenly leaves him and he feels like a gutless amateur.

It doesn't help when Anne says, 'Don't be scared.'

'Why do you think I'm scared?'

'This is just a guess, but I wonder if you think I might turn into a seal?'

'Don't joke, Anne.'

'I recognise that expression,' she continues, 'as though you had glimpsed something beyond the veil of our every day world and can't quite believe it. You look just like one of the Thomas children when they stole my breakfast egg and then all of a sudden the skies would darken and a storm would roll in. I got everyone's egg then.'

Gilbert grins, but it's a weak one. Finally he says to her:

'I wish there was another word for love. I wish – I wish I hadn't said it, that I saved it for this moment. Because what I feel… what I feel for you, Anne…'

He breaks off, blushing; knowing what he is admitting can be construed in so many ways, and most of them badly. He is an amateur – worse, he is a fool. Why did he try to put it into words? He should have kept his mouth busy instead of blurting out such half formed nonsense. It's too much to hope Anne understands, he doesn't even ask her to. Instead an apology forms in his throat, but it never makes it out because Anne's blush is just as fierce.

'You have never said I love you.'

Gilbert's brows shoot up and he lurches backwards, for a moment he thinks he might tumble from the bed.

'Sorry – I – what? I say it all the time.'

'You think I would miss such a declaration? You said you didn't know how to love me and not be with me, but you've never yet said those three simple words.'

'But they're not simple, Anne, that's what I'm trying to tell you. What I feel – I wish some other word existed that could show you what you mean to me.'

'You do show it, Gilbert. You showed it when you helped me collect nails after Matthew died, and when you agreed to go halves in our Art History book. When you found a source of bilberries, and taught me how to build a snow cave. When you fed me mushroom tea in Charlottetown, and climbed a mountain of rubbish at the Wend...'

As she speaks her fingers weave with his. Gilbert lowers his head to her chest, feels her sweet low voice go right through him. It is both reassuring and lovely to hear her strange list. No flowers or poems were mentioned – the usual love tokens that proved the affections of other young men. He remembers a summer picnic when he painted red juice on her finger. Anne had recalled the same memory earlier today, as she clutched her unread letters in Mrs Tom's kitchen. There were blobs of red wax on each envelope and it reminded her of the stain Gilbert placed on her left hand. She clutched the letters close to her heart and tears came to her eyes, then Mrs Tom started blubbing into her tea as she begged Anne to forgive her for sending her away.

'You were wonderful with Mrs Tom, when she fainted and after… You seemed to know just what she needed. Have you ever thought...'

Gilbert's voice drifts away and he rubs his eyes as if he could rub away the dark circles beneath them. Anne rolls onto her stomach and traces a line over his collarbone, and along his shoulder. Pressing her breasts against his chest she reaches across and down to the floor. When she comes up again she is holding his shirt. She sits up and throws it at him, playfully.

'I know what _you_ need. I can see it plain as plain.'

'And what's that?' says Gilbert confused.

'You need to go back to your dorm room. You desperately need some sleep. And so do I. Come, before they lock the doors.'

There is no anger, no frustration as she says this to him. Anne has simply transformed back to friend. She wraps her blanket around her looking very much like the girl of Christmas morning who ordered Gilbert to the cottage. When he tugs his boots back on, he isn't sorry, he is happy, stupidly happy to be loved by such a girl.

He slips into the dark hallway, the stale smell of tobacco, coffee and ammonia thick in the air. A maid struts by and gives him a dirty look, then an older woman wobbles drunkenly to her room.

Gilbert reaches the staircase and looks back at Anne, a black silhouette in the doorway. The light from her room casts a golden glow around her and paints her shadow on the wall.

He knows this isn't the time, nor the place, he also knows it's useless to fight it. These words don't come from his throat but his heart; he couldn't stop them if he wanted to.

'Selkie's child,' he calls, and she turns to him. 'I love you.'


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter ten**_

Fred Wright grinds his heel into spruce needles that cover the hill he just climbed. The April sun is white in its fierceness, and though it's not yet warm here, he welcomes the shade of the trees that surround them. He leans against rough bark and grins at his friend.

'Believe me now?'

'I'll be…' says Gilbert, falling to his knees.

Fred laughs. 'You've only been back from school a week and already you sound like your Pa.'

Gilbert whips out his pocketknife and carefully slices a ribbon of flesh from a stem. It comes up in a thin green spiral; the sap is thin and clear. He brings it to his nose and inhales. Primula forestii? When Anne comes back to visit Green Gables he must bring her here and get her opinion – though he can't see much conversation occurring in the sweet scented forest, or this springy needle ground… The thought of her here, his summery dryad, makes his throat go dry, and he tugs at his collar before remembering his chum is standing behind him.

'Well,' he says finally, his back still to Fred, 'you should understand me then, seeing as all my _Latin nonsense_ was confusing you – hey!' and he lurches back, as a wad of spit hits the leaves of the specimen he is studying. 'What's the big idea? You march me all the way over here –'

' _All_ the way? Gil, it was two miles!'

'– to show me this botanical oddity, then you poison it with your stinking spit.'

Fred is about to left another wad fly. Instead he brings his hands up to his mouth, huffs and breathes in deep.

'It's not that bad,' he says, giving it another sniff.

'Rollmops and raw onion,' says Gilbert, 'am I right? Glory Fred, I hope you're not kissing Diana with that mouth.'

Fred can't help himself, he crosses his arms and says loftily, 'Well, if I wasn't there's plenty round here who'd gladly take her place.'

This is where Gilbert would grab him by the ankles and bring him down with a thud. Fred waits, primed for reprisal. When it doesn't come he decides the plant Gil is looking at must be more interesting than he thought. Fred was sure it was a kind of cowslip, it looked like one, but he hadn't seen it growing on a rocky patch of hillside before. Gilbert was just as sure Fred was mistaken. Eventually curiosity got the better of him and after Saturday luncheon they headed over to the Rossis' old place, where Dora's beau now lives.

Gilbert is familiar with the rare and beautiful plant life that thrives round here, and often brings back herbs for his mother. At the top of the hill lies the Sunrise Garden. All sorts of flowers and trees grow in that place, but Gilbert never thought to forage in the forested slope that lead up to it. The slope has a fair bit of hair-grass and bracken, and occasional tufts of sheep's fescue, but cowslips _here_ in such highly acid soil? He's never seen the like of it.

It's certainly an interesting find – but that's not why Fred isn't sprawled out on the forest floor right at this moment; it's the way he keeps talking about other girls.

If it is a joke, Gilbert doesn't find it funny. He flattens down needles with a broad sweep, and sits. His Pa would call this a pipe sucking moment. In the next moment Fred is doing just that.

'Like it?' Fred asks, tamping down a plug of tobacco into a small rosewood bowl. 'Em gave it to me – for my birthday.'

'Emma White gave you a pipe?'

'Gertie did too. They're not speaking now,' he adds, with some pride. He sucks on his pipe for a moment then feels about for a match. Gilbert throws him the box in his pocket – he feels like throwing it at Fred's fat head.

He isn't jealous; it isn't that. Fred is a hero, in everyone's eyes, including Gilbert's. He likes that his chum is having a moment in the sun. Fred Wright has everything against him. It is hard enough that his mother's people are Acadian; he is also short, poor, and left school when he was twelve. He is also set on winning Diana Barry, one of the richest, sweetest, most beautiful girls on the entire Island.

It is this kind of courage Gilbert most admires, but others are not so easily impressed. They want feats of derring-do, and Fred had provided it in spades. Not only for braving what is now described as the worst storm in living memory to fetch John Blythe from Charlottetown. But for apprehending the maddened witch who tried to murder John's wife, and breaking up a fight to the death between John's son and Martin's.

Fred clenches the pipe in his teeth and eases off his boots. They are his new ones; he finally decided to break them in. He is wearing his hair in a different style too, and there is a distinct bristly shadow growing under his nose.

'Aww, my big toe,' he complains.

'What does Diana think of that?'

Fred is baffled by such an inquiry and says as much.

'Not your toe, Tourt, your pipe! Or pipes I should say.'

Fred shrugs. 'Oh she likes 'em. _All_ the fine gentleman in Charlottetown smoke pipes.'

Something about the way Fred said "all" makes Gilbert soften. If Fred thought there might be a suitor or two sniffing about his girl then it would go some way to explaining why he boasted about his birthday presents. Still, it sits uneasily, this sense of things going wrong. Diana Barry and Fred Wright are… how does Anne describe them? "Made and meant for each other."

She might have cause to rethink that now, at church the next morning half a dozen boys and a couple of girls stick close to Fred as though his heroism might rub off on them. The boys' eyes are wide, the girls' eyelids lowered along with their chins.

Gilbert wants to make a joke about them trying to make themselves shorter, but he has a feeling Fred won't see the light side of that.

'Fred!' Alice Penhallow calls, and waves her handkerchief at him.

Fred slaps Gilbert on the back.

'Better see what she wants – you can come if you like. You remember Alice, don't you Gil?'

Gilbert's eyes almost bulge in surprise. Of course he knows Alice. He probably has ten of her bookmarks stuffed in the back of his drawer, all carefully embroidered with verses like: _Summer_ _may change for winter,_ _Flowers may fade and die, But I shall ever love thee, While I can heave a sigh…_

She is heaving a sigh now, but no longer for Gilbert, her generously swelling bosom rising up and down in her new satin trimmed jacket.

'…gave me such a fright,' she is saying, as Gilbert joins them. 'But I didn't dare see for myself because Papa wasn't there. Then this morning he goes into the barn to saddle up Misty, and what do you know? A whole barrel of pickled herring was missing!'

Fred whistles. 'A whole barrel? You sure now, it must have weighed close to two hundred pounds.'

Alice nods and opens her mouth, but Em has decided Alice has commandeered Fred long enough and tugs on his arm.

'Well, we had four sacks of white Portugals clean stolen from our covered porch. Father was taking them to market –'

Gilbert chuckles and elbows his chum.

'Sounds like the lunch you had yesterday.'

Em frowns. 'You say the strangest things, Gil Blythe, why you sound just like Anne.'

'Doesn't he?' Fred says, drily. 'Well ladies, let me take down the particulars and I'll see what I can do. Now Alice, was the barrel a standard or a hogshead?'

He dips into the pocket of his Sunday best jacket and pulls out a penny notebook and a pencil stump, which he licks. Gilbert stands there amazed. Here is Fred, who used to call a fountain pen a torture device, taking down dictation with a slow and steady hand.

'Frederic,' his mother calls, 'put that away! C'est dimanche,' she mutters crossly, and scans the congregation. Every one of them is beaming at Fred. Celie Wright smiles back, then because she cannot resist, she adds, 'Oh, congratulations, Gilbert dear, and bon chance, may I say. Anne is quite the handful, but such a hard worker. May you both be very blessed.'

'Uh… merci, Mrs Wright,' Gilbert responds. 'I – ah...'

Words fail him and he looks to Fred for help.

' _Mama,_ ' Fred warns, pulling Celie Wright away. 'Don't pay that any mind, Gil, it's just a bit of nonsense your Pa said a while back. See you early Monday morning. Back field, got it?'

'I'll be there,' Gilbert says, then dodging the fair form of Mrs Lynde who looks keen to catch up with young Blythe, he swiftly seeks out his parents.

There is no opportunity to ask them about it until late afternoon. The Blythes have company this Sunday, the newly engaged Dora and her fiancé, Soren Blomqvist.

'So when's the big day?' Gilbert asks them, over Dora's treacle tart.

The pastry is crisp and thin and even before he has finished this slice he knows he is going to cut a second.

'That will depend on the date of our voyage back to Sweden,' Soren answers, politely.

'So long as it's before my next birthday, Soren. I should like to be a bride at eighteen.'

'Eighteen's a little young,' says Gilbert.

He doesn't really have an opinion one way or the other, though he knows his mother would like Dora to continue her apprenticeship for as long as possible. Not that the job is likely to change her mind, but it was something to say while he put the knife to the tart again and cut another slice.

It is half way in his mouth when Dora says a little sharply:

'Anne is eighteen.'

John Blythe clears his throat.

'Coffee? Tea? I'll fetch some fresh water.'

'Yes do,' his wife says, quickly, and offers Gilbert another slice.

'I think I've had enough,' he says, pushing his plate away. 'Tell me, Dora, is Miss Cuth – sorry – is Mrs Rossi expecting me to visit anytime soon?'

'Now that you mention it –'

'That sounds nice, Gilbert dear,' Ro interrupts, 'but I believe your father wants you here – ah, I'll see to the tea.'

As they wave their guests goodbye, cheeks aching with wide smiles, Gilbert finally grabs his chance.

'How many people in Avonlea think Anne and I are engaged?'

Ro stares past him and locks eyes with her husband.

'I told you this was a bad idea.'

John stands firm. He puffs out his chest and squares his massive shoulders.

'Not if it stops those waggin' tongues.'

Gilbert slumps. 'Wagging over me, no doubt.'

'Not since _I_ put a stop to it. Admit it now, Ro, when was the last time someone asked about our son and Miss Mawsey? Exactly. I don't see what the problem is when last Christmas Gil as good as said he and Anne planned on makin' a match. All I did was… hurry them along.'

'You don't see what the problem is?' Gilbert splutters.

Since arriving in Avonlea eight days ago it's been one surprise after another, but this one takes his breath away. The problems are manifold: he had not spoken with Mr Allan about his intentions, he had not asked Marilla's permission, and most pertinently of all, he had not asked Anne.

'If Anne hears about this – '

'What?' John counters, 'you think she'll contradict it? A smart girl like her knows what's what. But in case you don't then let me make it clear. Folks'll tolerate one of their own ignorin' the rules for only so long. Sure, at first they might admire you for it, but I'm tellin' you, Gil, it's only a matter of time before they turn.'

'Turn on me, for what?'

'You know full well what I mean. What are they supposed to think?'

'How about the truth?'

'What _truth?_ That you and Anne have been canoodlin' behind every rock and tree this side of Kensington – what's to stop folks thinkin' you and Margaret did the same? You should have heard the rumours after you left, linkin' you with that girl. They were sayin' it explained why your mother took her in, why Margaret went huntin' after Anne, why you went after Davy – '

'I'm not the father, _he_ is!'

'Hush,' Ro hisses, and looks beyond her front fence. She can't see anyone about, but that doesn't mean they are out of hearing. 'Inside, both of you NOW. Airing our dirty laundry like this…' and shepherds the Blythe men inside.

After the bright glare of the white sky the house feels cool and dim. Gilbert shuts his eyes for a moment and tries to collect his thoughts. He is angry with his Pa, angry with Margaret, angry with Davy Rossi, but he knows, Lord he knows, none of this would have happened if he simply followed his father's advice and courted Anne properly.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a chair. John sits at the head of the table; his wife in between. She runs her left hand over polished larch wood, recalling the day she laid a huge sum of money on this table. She had saved it in secret for years and that secret had hurt her family. Ro will not make the same mistake again.

'I pride myself on never breaking a confidence, but things have got so tangled up I can't see another way to untangle it.'

'Go on,' says John, reaching for his pipe.

He finds it under a pile of opened envelopes, their letters folded neatly inside. One falls in front of Gilbert, which his mother duly snatches and returns to the pile. Her wrist has healed up beautifully and she has some movement in her thumb, but her fingers look like they've been chewed, and are curled in wizened claws.

Gilbert hates to see it, but what hurts more is the faded look on his mother's face. Ro was never considered a beauty like Ebba, or Prudie and Laura Lynde. She is the vivid kind of woman, with an olive complexion and fierce gold eyes. At least she used to be. His mother misses her work, misses it bodily; Gilbert understands this now. For the first time in a long time he thinks of Lottie, and wishes she were here.

If Ro senses her son's thoughts she doesn't show it. She purses her lips and breathes in deep.

'What I have to say concerns Davy Rossi. I don't believe he is the father.'

Gilbert is glad he is sitting; otherwise he would have sunk to the floor.

'Pardon?'

'I'll be,' says John.

'This is to go no further,' Ro commands them. 'Understand?' Both Blythes nod. 'Davy has… well he contracted a certain malady a while back…' she says vaguely. 'What he has is extremely contagious. If he was the father of Margaret's child Margaret would have exhibited the same symptoms.'

'How do you know?'

'How do I _know?_ ' Ro snaps at her son. 'Because I have more knowledge in my little finger than Dr Spencer and Dr Blair combined.'

She chuckles then, a sort of dry, tired laugh and lifts her injured hand.

'Perhaps not these fingers –'

'Ro, that's bitter talk.'

'True,' she admits, and turns to her son.

He has already removed his tie and ruffled up his carefully combed hair. She notices a small scar on his cheekbone, and another through his eyebrow. Ro wouldn't be surprised if he wore them with pride, but a damaged reputation is so much harder to heal.

'I know you're no angel, Gilbert, but I've sure seen you come close. When you gave up the Avonlea school for young Anne, and worked miracles trying to save my –'

She purses her lips again, trying to hold back her words. Gilbert does not want to be a herbalist, and Ro wants peace with her son.

'I want that boy back,' she says, simply. 'The boy I am so proud of. Is it too much to ask you to promise me that?'

Ro gives his forearm a squeeze before shuffling the envelopes again. The gesture works like a reminder, and Gilbert thinks of the letters of Walter and Bertha Shirley. Perhaps that might explain why he ignores his mother's question and asks one of his own.

'Ma, what happened to Miss Mawsey's baby?'

The shuffling stops and Ro looks her at son with a mix of respect and awe. Noting this, John retrieves the topmost envelope and reads out the return address.

'Charlottetown Foundling Hospital. Ro?'

'She doesn't even have name, John – they are calling her baby M. She is twelve weeks old now – Margaret is being sent away – to a reformatory in Guelph – it's not forever, just until she is released –'

'And I suppose you want to bring her here too?'

' _Of course_ I don't!'

Gilbert scrapes back his chair, loudly.

'Ma, Pa, may I be excused?'

They barely acknowledge him and for that he is thankful. He would much rather they pore over the particulars of Miss Mawsey than himself, and manages to leave the room without promising his parents anything. He didn't intentionally shirk this; his thoughts were all over the place after learning about Davy. That he isn't the father seems impossible – and it's this that rankles most. Gilbert sees now he is no better than those Avonlea gossips that want to believe the same about him.

He is scaling the graveyard fence before he knows what he is doing, and strides between the headstones. It's not long before he starts thinking of Anne. She loves graveyards, and often spends long hours in them. But this one will always be her favourite, and Gilbert stands before the stone that explains why: Here lies Matthew Cuthbert, the quiet bachelor who accidentally adopted a girl, and changed this village forever. He brushes a leaf from the stone and politely tips his cap, then he walks to the furthest corner where a mighty maple stands.

Gilbert's strongest memories of his sister dwell with this tree. They were never allowed to play in the ones on their property; trees aren't kindred spirits at the Blythe place, they are crops. This maple is the closest tree to their house that had the right shaped bough for a swing. He used to push Lottie on a thick rope knotted to a plank of wood, and she would beg him to push her higher and higher, till her little boots touched at the leaves.

What would it be like to still have a sister? She would be fourteen by now, or was it fifteen? It shakes Gilbert that he's not immediately sure.

He looks up at the bough worn smooth and the ragged bit of rope tied about it. His skin prickling and his heart beating hard as a white bird suddenly lands on the knot. Is this Anne's doing? She sees signs of Matthew everywhere, does their oath mean he can see signs too?

A cool breeze curls around his neck and the white bird eyes at him beadily, cocking its head to the side and releasing a silvery trill. Gilbert's mouth falls open, then he quickly clamps it shut as one – two – three droppings splatter on his head.

'Very funny, little sister,' he mutters, and examining his cap, he heads to the north corner of the graveyard where the biggest dock leaves grow.

His mother finds him two hours later, lying in his stomach examining some roots, and all thoughts of yanking him home disappear with the setting sun. His cap is soiled, his face a picture of perfect concentration. He hasn't even noticed her, and her heart fills with much-missed gladness, so quickly and in such a rush, she has to catch her breath.

Supper will keep, she thinks to herself, supper will keep.

And without a word she turns away and heads back home.

 **...**

 _* rollmops are pickled herrings, white Portugals are a type of onion_

 _* c'est dimanche is French for it's Sunday_


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter eleven**_

When Gilbert returns from the graveyard he almost expects to find Margaret's baby napping in the spare room, such is the strength of Ro Blythe's will. But while she is stubborn she isn't stupid. John rightly points out that bringing up this baby would likely rekindle rumours that their son was responsible. He has one condition before they take the child in: they would announce their intention at Prayer Meeting the following week and discover the community's opinion.

That Tuesday John hums as he carefully knots his tie; his wife sings a lullaby while ironing her best print blouse. He is happy because he is certain folks will object to the baby and take these objections out on their son; there is no way Ro will let that happen, and she'll have to forgo this fool idea. His wife's mood is derived from a different certainty. All she has to do is announce her intentions; she doesn't have to take these opinions into account.

They leave their house that evening with light, complacent hearts. Gilbert is making his own way there. He saw full well that trouble was brewing and mentioned he would take supper with the Wrights that evening, and go to Prayer Meeting with them. As the Wrights old wagon bumps along the rutted road he can't help hope the cartwheel breaks. They arrive at the hall with time to spare, however, and Ro pats an empty chair with her left hand. Her right hand is in a sort of sling made of indienne fabric in blues and reds. It's not that she is ashamed of her wound; she just cannot abide the stares. Marilla said the same thing once, when she was going blind. In the end she avoided church altogether and had Reverend Allan come to her. It heartens Ro to know there are more rebels in Avonlea than people care to admit.

Josiah Allan sits at the end of the row, while Elder Andrews (Iain) recites the opening prayer. Elder Andrews (Malcolm) is next, which makes Ro even happier; the vain man refuses to wear his spectacles and keeps his reading short and sweet. After this the congregation are given leave to offer prayers or ask for them. Mr Andrews has barely returned to his seat before Mrs Blythe leaves hers.

'Friends, I wish to make a prayer in gratitude for the care and support you have given me these past months. A more generous, God fearing folk does not exist on this Island…'

A brief frown flashes over John Blythe's face, their son has to stifle a laugh. This is the way to get them onside: stoke their piety first. The congregants are all self-congratulating smiles, though some of them fade when Ro offers a second prayer; to Margaret Mawsey, and her baby girl now condemned to life at a Foundling Hospital.

'She may never know a mother's love. Pray God have mercy on this poor little child –'

John kicks his wife's boot; she is laying it on rather thick. Ro nudges him away.

'Finally, I ask for one last blessing. It is my wish to save this baby from a loveless childhood. I could not save her mother, pray give me the grace to save her baby, and allow her to live here, among the good people of Avonlea.'

The smiles have all but gone now. Only Ruby is still grinning, and this because she is picturing what she plans to wear to the Midsummer Dance in June. A few Amens can be heard, which are quickly drowned out by clicking tongues.

Marilla Rossi hides a smile, she knows full well what Ro is doing, and cannot help respect her pluck. Martin is stone faced. Pyes, Sloanes, and Andrews are close to purple.

Mr Andrews (Donald) leaps to his feet, and predictably quotes Deuteronomy.

'No one born of a forbidden union may enter the assembly of the Lord. Even to the tenth generation!'

Ro of course is prepared for this, and duly responds with Psalms.

'But if my father and my mother have forsaken me the Lord will take me in.'

'And has he, dear?' says a mellifluous voice from the back of the hall. 'Has he forsaken his child?'

Ro turns to see Mina Pye rise; her clear blue eyes on Gilbert. Heat floods his cheeks and his chin lowers, as some members of the church stare at him, whilst other pass knowing glances in Martin's direction.

Ro places her hand on Gilbert's shoulder, she means to show solidarity with him, and takes an audible breath when he stands and faces Mina Pye.

'Please Ma, take your seat,' says Gilbert, through clenched teeth.

Scarlet face or no, he is going to end these whispers once for all.

'With respect, Mrs Pye, who is the _he_ you refer to; for I'm sure you remember Mr Allan's rule that no hearsay or gossip shall be uttered here?'

His voice rings clear and confident throughout the crowded hall – so that's what you got from a college education; not even twenty-one and he was squaring off with Mina Pye. Even the Wright boy would balk at that!

Mina falters for a moment. Gilbert did look the gentleman in his well-cut flannel suit, and his ambition to become a doctor is laudable. But he is still a Blythe for all that: slaves to their passions, the lot of them.

'Surely you wouldn't call Miss Mawsey's statement _hearsay_ , dear. It was good enough for the law.'

'If that's so,' Gilbert responds, 'the man in question would be required to care for the child. I don't recall Sergeant Swan requiring this of any man in our village. Are you suggesting Swan flouted the law?'

All eyes turn to Mina, whose own have darkened dangerously. She is caught good and proper now: it's one thing to debate the bible, but the law, now that was clear.

'Not at all,' Mina demurs, the words like rocks in her throat.

This _boy_ just humiliated her in front of everyone. And for what, so his charlatan mother could give legitimacy to some misbegotten brat? Meanwhile John Blythe just sits there like a great hunk of beef and allows it. The Blythes have always been clannish – it made one wonder what else they had to hide. Why the secrecy over Gilbert's engagement for instance? Well, if the purpose of a Prayer Meet is to lay sins out in the open then Pyes are prepared to do their part.

Mina gives a dismissive nod of her multi-plumed hat, signalling her retreat. Gilbert believes it is finally over; unfortunately it has only begun.

'Oh and before I forget,' adds Mina, sweetly, 'I cannot think of another so _deserving_ of Anne Shirley, and ask this congregation to bless your upcoming nuptials.'

John's head drops; Ro has bitten her lip so hard she tastes blood. Gilbert stands there, conspicuously, with every face trained on him. His heart begins to beat so loud he can barely hear his thoughts. Despite this he knows there's only one person here he must to answer to, and he turns toward her now.

'Mrs Pye assumes too much. Anne and I are not engaged.'

Marilla holds up her hand.

'That is quite enough, Gilbert. Take a seat. This meeting is for prayer.'

Unsurprisingly no one else has one to offer, and the meeting ends early, while the sun still hangs like a low hanging fruit. Ro watches the Rossis leave; they had gone to Green Gables without saying goodnight. John offers Gilbert the reins of the buggy. He waves them away, impatiently.

'You think I mean to go home for a glass of milk and a slice of pie after what… has been done?'

He wants to say, after what _you_ have done _._ His father had started this, and his mother thought she would finish it, and he had been a dutiful son and kept quiet and out of their way. But no longer. No more. From now on he answers for himself.

Gilbert marches away with long defiant strides, taking the short cut through the Birch Path. The sight of the Snow Queen in early bud makes him shrink with embarrassment as he recalls the night he climbed up to Anne's window. He had wronged Davy, and embarrassed Marilla, and he had to make it right. And if they won't let him come inside he will simply sit there till sun up.

It doesn't come to that, of course, Dora opens the door at the first knock, and invites him inside. He is made to wait in the parlour like a stranger, when Marilla enters the room is almost dark. Not that she would know this, and Gilbert isn't about to mention it now.

He stands up and removes his hat.

'Thank you for agreeing to see me, Ma'am.'

Marilla feels for her armchair and swiftly takes a seat.

'For goodness sake, Gilbert, sit down.'

She smooths down skirts that do no need smoothing then sits back straight in her chair. Her eyelids are half lowered which gives her a disdainful air. Gilbert tells himself it is not intentional, though he only half believes it.

'I admit I expected you long before now,' Marilla admits. 'Talk of this engagement has been going on for weeks. I did my utmost to ignore the chatter. It's not my business what others say about my family, my duty is to my own – I only wish your father was as prudent.'

Gilbert bristles. It might be fine for him to criticize his father, but it is intolerable in anyone else.

'When Pa told folks we planned to marry he meant it as a kindness.'

'I should hope so,' says Marilla. 'It would be regrettable if he considered it a _punishment_. What I want to know is why such a rumour was begun in the first place?'

In the murk of the parlour Gilbert cannot see the playful glint in Mrs Rossi's sightless eyes, and begins to believe she truly dislikes him. The winks and teases he relies on when he talks with other women can have no influence here. There is one thing is his favour, however, if Mrs Rossi is already against him he has nothing to lose by telling the truth.

'This all began because I made a mistake. I took Miss Mawsey at her word when she claimed your stepson was the father of her child. When Fred came to you last Christmas to let you know he tracked her down, I wanted to go to Green Gables too. It was wrong of me to leave Ma, I know that. And Davy… well, I suppose you could say he pointed that out –'

'I remember the incident. Dora wasted a moose steak on you.'

Another glint, but Gilbert is looking resolutely at the floor.

'Yes ma'am – ah… so after that my name, Davy's, and Margaret's were all bound together. Folks wanted someone to blame for the girl's predicament. Some thought it was Davy's fault. Others assumed it was mine, which posed a threat to Anne's character, seeing as she and I –'

'Are _friends?_ '

A smirk now. In her mind's eye the boy before her is just that, a boy. But he mustn't count on excuses being made for him, not if he wants to be thought a man. Nevertheless Marilla has some pity for the fellow. He is that affected by nerves she can almost hear his Adam's apple bob up and down.

'Y-yes,' Gilbert stammers. 'Pa didn't want folks making the same assumptions about Anne as they did about Margaret. He thought a proper engagement would add respectability.'

At this Marilla decides to put Gilbert out of misery. He has acquitted himself admirably, at the Prayer Meeting and tonight. Not that she expects any less – on the contrary, she expects more.

'I must say,' she says, and leans in close – she has flecks of hazel in her eyes, Gilbert never noticed that before – 'John has a peculiar idea of propriety, but that is a conversation I shall have with him. What I wish to say to you, is this. No one knows my girl better than I do. No one is more familiar with the disapproving tattle she garners, and no one is better equipped to dispel it. Whatever your family's fondness for Anne, you have no right – none – to speak on her behalf. That is my prerogative and I do so now. I do not nor will I ever give my blessing to any engagement while you are still in school. If you believe your friendship lacks respectability then I suggest you behave respectably, and not use an engagement as your shield. It is not a shield, it is a promise to unite before God, and not to be entered into lightly, but…?' she asks Gilbert, sharply.

'Reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly,' he recites, feeling like an eight year old being drilled in catechism by his Sunday school teacher.

The birds outside have suddenly quietened and the moon is high in the sky. Marilla stands and walks into the hall, signalling the interview is over.

She opens the front door and ushers him out, and he stands there mute in the doorway.

'Just so,' she says, 'now ask yourself, are _you_ such a man, Gilbert Blythe?'

 **…**

 _* the quote 'not entered into lightly, but reverently…' is from the Book of Common Prayer. It was added to the marriage service about ten years after this story is set, but if Maud can play around with time frames so can I._


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter twelve**_

In May comes May. Ro Blythe names Margaret's baby for this vital, tender, lush-green month – and green she most certainly is. Everyone who visits the child comes away with the same opinion: What a sickly looking thing! Pale as watered milk, even her eyes couldn't hold their colour; like cheap cotton that had been over-blued by a careless laundress. She was placid enough, however, barely made a peep. A fact John's wife brought up constantly during the baby's first week under their roof. Such a quiet wee girl, practically sleeping right through; surely it wouldn't hurt if May remained in their bedroom a little longer.

John weathered his wife's needling for six days, but on the seventh he laid down the law. As he recalled, the room he slept in was called the master bedroom, not the nursery. It may well be the worst sin any self-respecting housewife can commit, but Ro has no choice. She must give up the Spare Room.

Ro stands there that Tuesday morning, one hand on her hip, May perched on the other, surveying the work to be done. They would have to find somewhere to store the great oak bed. It had once belonged to old Saul Gillaley and must have taken up most of the cottage; not that his wife spent much time indoors, according to her beloved book of remedies. Thinking of Nespe reminds Ro to seek out Lottie's old quilt that she keeps in a trunk in the attic. It is the match of Gilbert's in the same spring colours of gold and green – just perfect for a little May-child.

Settling the baby in her basket Ro swiftly climbs the attic steps. When she spies a broken roof truss jutting into the trunk, her heart sinks into her stomach. Last year's snowstorm must have done this; the roof buckled under the weight of the snow and crushed the lid of the trunk. Ro carefully removes the rotten truss and her heart leaps again, this time up to her throat, as two, three… five moths flutter away from the hole it has made. In another moment she has Lottie's quilt in her hands – what is left of it. Her blanket has been eaten clean through.

'She can have mine,' says Gilbert later that evening, over a pick up supper of cold ham and fresh asparagus. 'She can have my old room, too.'

Ro's smile is quick to show itself; now _this_ is the boy she raised. How diligent and selfless he has been since that frightful Prayer Meeting last month. If he isn't working on the farm all day, he is working in the cottage all night. Not to mention the help he was giving to the Wrights and the Rossis. He even gave a hand to Soren Blomqvist instead of going hunting for some missing chickens with Fred. And now he is sacrificing his comfort for May – not that Ro will allow it, of course. Just hearing Gilbert describe his bedroom as _old_ makes her wince, and she tells him so.

'Why not? I'm practically sleeping in the cottage as it is. Makes no sense clearing out the spare room when I go back to Redmond in August.'

There, it is decided, he will not stay on in Avonlea. Gilbert sneaks a look at his mother who appears oblivious to the announcement and is making faces at baby May. His father on the other hand…

'August?' John splutters through a half chewed spear. 'Potatoes won't be ready for harvest till September, surely your college knows that?'

'I'm afraid Redmond doesn't plan its terms round the Almanac. Second year begins on August 26th, and I need to allow at least two days for travel and signing in. I'm sorry, Pa, but I –'

'Doesn't consult the Almanac? Why in heaven's name not? Who's going to feed all you doctors and philosophisers if there's no one here for harvest? All these egghead intellectuals and not one ounce of common sense!'

After a dessert of pickle and cheese Gilbert heads out to the cottage again. There is a tincture he is perfecting, and he wants to test his batches.

John follows as he sometimes does when the evenings are warm, and is soon sitting on the red stone step sucking on his pipe and pondering.

'Nice out here,' he says at last.

Gilbert pokes his head round the door and considers the view: the sheltering hedge of juniper, the higgledy stone path, the purple budding flowers, the oak Anne once clambered onto when she was trying to get away from him. They had been hiding out on the low-pitched roof and staring up at the clouds, and she was strange and spiky and serious in her ugly black dress and her glaring green eyes. He had never been so annoyed and entranced by someone is his life…

'Will you get your head out of the clouds?'

'Sorry Pa, I – what did you say?'

'I said, I think it's a good idea you summering at the cottage.'

The moony look on Gilbert's face dissolves to one of impishness.

'You're only saying that because I'm getting too big to kick out of your rocker.'

'Haven't been near it since May-child arrived – she's a nice little thing,' he concedes. 'Not winsome like you or Lottie, of course.'

'Winsome! Don't tell Fred that, I'll never live it down.'

'May looks a lot like the Wrights, have you noticed?'

'Pa, all the Wrights are as different from each other as robins eggs from geese.'

'The Giraud side, then. Real pointy and small.'

John goes quiet and sucks on his pipe some more. Gilbert watches the curls of smoke rise and considers his father's opinion. He knows what Pa is really saying: There was no way anyone in Avonlea can reasonably suspect Margaret's daughter is a Blythe. His mother had been smart bringing this baby to Avonlea. Folks here might never have heard of Mendel and his pea plants but they did know Pyes couldn't help being Pyes, and that Sloanes were cursed with Sloanishness. Whites all have that lock of white hair; Penhallows have bad teeth. Blythes are the big and brown type – some even whispered of Indian blood. But one look at May and you knew she would never be big and brown. Nor tawny-eyed, nor curly haired, nor is there a hint of a lusty, rambunctious nature.

In fact May is unnervingly quiet, and while Gilbert has no real experience of a four month old infant he is fairly sure she should be making a lot more noise. But there is no point asking Pa; the man who likes to boast that he never went near his children till they learned to use the pot. Though, his memory may have some holes in it, for he also thought May was old enough to be out of napkins (this said as he bounced her with great proficiency upon his sodden knee.)

Ma maintains May is doing exactly what any child would do if her mother were taken away: cling silently to the safest woman she happens by. She will not leave Ro's arms except in sleep – but Gilbert's bedroom isn't too far away.

He is lugging his mattress into the cottage the next day when Anne arrives; her face flushed with the brisk pace of her walk from Green Gables. Gilbert is so stunned by her unexpected arrival he drops his mattress on the flagstone floor.

'Quick, no, pick it up! Bed bugs!' Anne cries and tries the wrestle the heavy feather bed from the floor.

'There aren't any bugs in my bed,' says Gilbert, partly in defence of himself, the other part not quite believing that these are the first words he is saying to her.

He crouches at her feet and takes the weight of the mattress, then dumps it onto the bedsprings.

'They don't just live in mattresses; they live in every little nook and crack. Mrs Tom used to say they know when you're breathing. I can't count all the times I tried to hold my breath in hopes they might lose interest in me.'

Anne sits on his bed and pats the place next to her. Curiously, Gilbert prefers to stand, though he can't help make a gentle tease.

'I told you you're delicious.'

Anne rises and walks towards him.

'Would you like to have another taste?'

'I – I have to fetch all my linen and books. Ma says I can take my curtains too –'

'Gilbert,' Anne says, her voice soft and low, 'aren't you pleased to see me?'

She receives a sheepish smile.

'I'm surprised, is all,' Gilbert tells her, and quickly heads outside.

He knows full well Anne will not accept this answer but he doesn't have another one to give. How can he, when he knows in his heart that whatever reason he might come up with will crumple and burn like paper in a flame the moment he touches her?

It doesn't help that she looks gorgeous; hatless with her hair worn loose, dressed in his favourite turquoise gown. She appears to have lost even more weight, the fabric slips like water over her body, her breasts, her waist, her thighs… The way they widened as she bore his weight, the sound she made when his hips met hers. He hadn't let himself think on that for weeks, and now she is here, so close he can count her freckles, so close he is sure she can hear his heart thud with joy at her nearness…

'Sorry Anne, I – I should freshen up. I've been up since four, and –'

'So it's true,' Anne says, eyes dancing with mischief. 'Marilla Rossi got to you. I can see it plainly, Blythe, no use trying to deny it.'

Gilbert balks. 'Who told you that?'

'I really shouldn't reveal my sources. Let's just say a certain Queens student received a lot of letters from a lot of girls in Avonlea who wanted to know if she dared to be my bridesmaid when Mrs Rossi forbade my wedding.'

She smiles at him. He doesn't smile back.

'I meant to warn you.'

'It's me that should have warned you,' Anne says. 'I'm so used to stories being told about me… but I don't think you are.'

She brushes away a streak of dust that has settled on Gilbert's brow. Such a simple gesture, yet his legs turn to water and he rubs his neck as though needing something to hold onto. What he wants to hold is the girl in front of him. Anne knows this of course, it's written all over him, etched deep like the library's scored stone sill. She glances back at the cottage and the one great window hung with cheap canvas drapes.

'Come,' she says, mildly, and slips through the hedge, 'I'll help you hang your new curtains.'

They spend the afternoon working together. Anne has Gilbert start from scratch. The cottage needs a good spring-clean, and his mother has enough to do. He lugs the dresser, the desk and the sofa into the small garden out front, while Anne strews damp tealeaves from one of Ro's crocks over every interior surface.

'Clings to the dust, you see,' she says, somewhat proudly, 'prevents it flying into the air. After we sweep it up, we can sprinkle the leaves round the rose beds – Marilla gave me that tip.'

'So that's why her roses are so grand.'

'They make the most wonderful oil too, takes the scent of mutton fat clean away.'

'Now you've lost me. Roses and mutton fat?'

'I wouldn't expect you to know such a thing, even a prince of herbs like yourself. It's a cosmetic,' she explains, her voice shyer now, 'for these,' and she points to her soft pink lips.

Gilbert breathes deep as he admires them. Her bottom lip is so full it appears almost dimpled; her top lip perfectly curved like the petals of a primrose. A thought occurs to him, but it's something he can mention later. His mother will call them for afternoon tea any minute and they still have to scrub the walls and the floors, return the furniture, fold up his clothes, make up his bed…

'It looks strange without your great grandmother's quilt upon it,' Anne says, as she tucks in a bright Welsh blanket.

Her dress sways with her hips as she bends over the bed and briskly smooths it over. It takes a good deal of willpower for Gilbert not to swoop in behind her, fit his body against hers, cup her breasts in his hands, and lay his lips on her soft white neck. The sheen of sweat the gleams at her nape, the way the hair there darkens and curls…

This has to stop. He can't keep thinking of Anne this way. He strides outside and hauls the sofa into his arms, then swiftly drops it. A sharp snap strikes his back and he freezes with tearing pain.

'No! No-no-no-no-no…'

'Gil, what is it?'

Anne dashes from the cottage and finds Gilbert bracing himself against the toppled sofa.

'I don't know how it happened,' he gasps, 'I've shifted this many times before.'

'You haven't hurt your back have you?'

She doesn't mean to sound accusatory, but any farm girl worth her salt knows a back injury at this time of the year is almost as bad as your horse going lame. The planting, the ploughing, the lambing – all of it depends on a good, strong back. And there are many people in Avonlea who are depending upon his.

'Just breathe, don't move, I'm going to fetch your mother.'

Gilbert nods absently, his brown face going grey. Right now he can only think in Nos – though when his mother arrives his vocabulary has extended to stupid, foolish, and idiotic.

Ro hands May to Anne and crouches down next to her son. He has managed to straighten his back, but the thought of standing up makes him nauseous.

'Lean on me, darling, breathe out hard now and use your thighs. It won't hurt more than your shoulder did,' she says, referring to the night it was dislocated when he broke down the cottage door.

A grimace appears on Gilbert's face, then he blows out a breath and levers himself up. Ten minutes later he is lying on his stomach on the – it must be admitted – finely scrubbed floor. A teacloth filled with shards of ice is nestled in the small of his back.

'We're sowing the clover tomorrow, and I promised Fred we would camp out with the ewes –'

'I can help,' Anne offers, 'I've delivered three goats all on my own. You have one of mine, Mrs Blythe, for little May's milk.'

'The Wrights have sons enough to cover the lambing season, dear. Besides, you'll be due back at work once the wedding's done.'

Anne had been kneeling by Gilbert, and she stands and looks out the window. The oak tree is in early leaf, and the wind chime John made tinkles merrily for the baby beneath its shady bough. Anne has missed this loveable little house, missed it almost as much as Green Gables. Though that is not the reason she is back here now, in the middle of a working week, three days before the wedding.

She turns and offers Ro and Gilbert a smile she doesn't entirely feel.

'I am fairly certain I can take as much leave as I like from now on.'

'What do you mean?' Ro asks.

'Oh Anne,' says her son.

'Yes,' Anne sighs, and crosses her arms; how strange that she finds it harder to tell Mrs Blythe than her own Marilla. 'The thing is... well, you see... something happened. It doesn't matter what, all you need to know is this. I'm no longer working at the Echo. Mr Oliver let me go.'

 **...**

 _* Mendel and his pea plants, refers to Gregor Mendel who was a pioneer in the study of genetic traits._


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter thirteen**_

For a very proper girl Dora Rossi has a very improper wedding. She is not only married from Soren's home, the same fellow walks her down the aisle. To top it off she wears a wreath of leaves on her small blonde head. No Green Gables, no Martin giving her away, and no pretty bit of veil. What did it all mean?

Fortunately, Mrs Lynde is in attendance and entirely capable of explaining at length: these are Swedish customs done because Soren's folk are unable to attend given as they live some three thousand nautical miles away.

Rachel rocks on her sizeable feet as she lectures her audience on the centuries old tradition of wearing a myrtle crown, whilst sending teary glances to the quietly contented couple. She would miss her nephew something terrible when he took his bride back to Trintorp. And what a bride! Say what you will about Martin Rossi's woolly-headedness he certainly raised a model daughter.

And Mrs Lynde isn't the only one to think so. Mrs Blythe gifted the couple with a truly gracious wedding present; her prized blown-glass rolling pin.

'See here, Anne,' says Dora, 'you take this cork out – just so, and pour ice water inside. Keeps your pastry dough good and cool as you roll it out.'

Anne is far more taken with the cranberry glass striations. The rolling pin looks like a giant boiled sweet; if she were ten years younger she would have tried to lick it.

Gilbert observes them from the other side of the parlour, making sure he keeps a seemly distance. It is easy to do, Soren has invited the whole village to the wedding, and even had them line up to _kiss_ his new wife! Gilbert couldn't help wish the custom extended to her maid of honour. He is so used to seeing Anne in her smart city-wear: figure hugging designs in the brightest dyes and chicest cuts, and her hair in an elegant chignon. Today she looks more like the Anne of old; the girl she was before Matthew died. She is dressed in a simple tea gown made from some gauzy yellow fabric dotted with tiny flowers; her hair in a thick coronet woven around her shapely head. Matthew's pearls are at her throat and there are more pearls at her wrists that fasten her white lace gloves. When she peels one off to touch the glass with her bare skin Gilbert feels slightly light-headed.

He hasn't been sleeping well with his back, and is spending too much time lying awake in the shepherd's hut trying not to think of Anne. How much easier it was when she was in Charlottetown and he had a thousand things to do. Now he is confined to watching over pregnant ewes with Laurie, and making the occasional study of an interesting flower or leaf. He still hasn't got Anne's opinion on the primula Fred showed him last month, and there's no way he can unless he brings Laurie with him. Chaperones, public walks, designated visits; these are his lot now. He wouldn't mind if he had never known the spirit of the girl beneath that buttery dress. But he does, and the longing for her seems to blaze from him like light from a lighthouse.

Everyone knows it. There wasn't one who thought Gilbert's declaration at the Prayer Meeting and the consequential distance he maintains meant anything had changed between him and the Shirley girl. Why, you couldn't pass between them without wilting in the glare, such was the heat coming off them. As such there is no one blocking his path as he makes way his toward Anne, though the room is close to bursting.

She can sense him, he can tell, her neck lengthens and her face turns ever so slightly in his direction.

'It's beautiful,' Anne murmurs, returning the glass rolling pin to Dora's eager hands.

'There's one for you too,' says Gilbert, coming up behind her. His breath flusters the curled tendrils by Anne's ear and she raises her shoulder, coyly. 'Ma's big sister had the other, and no daughters to give it to.'

'I forgot Mr Fletcher had been married to your aunt before he wed Martha. He took over the Gillaley farm.'

'All the land behind ours was Gillaley land once. Agamok farm, it was called. It sticks in Ma's craw that he changed the name after Aunt Freda died.'

'Agamok. That means white ash.'

Gilbert's heart swells when she says this.

'How could you know that?'

'There's some very good reading in that remedy book of your mother's.'

'I know. It's got so thick I've had to start another.'

Anne's heart beats wildly now, and she shifts away from Dora and looks at Gilbert, searchingly.

'You're writing a book?'

'I wouldn't call it that,' he says, scratching his head.

A stray curl comes untucked as he does so. Anne would dearly like to pat it down. But not here, not when her beloved boy would prefer they behaved with the perfect decorum of Mr and Mrs Soren Blomqvist. Fortunately temptation is easily subdued. Soon enough Diana Barry has Anne's arm, and Frederic Wright, Gilbert's.

The latter tugs his best chum out to the garden and further up the hillside where that peculiar primula grows.

'I'm going to do it!' Fred says, fiercely. 'All this waitin' has gone on long enough, don't you think?'

You can imagine Gilbert's face. He had been expecting Fred wanted to share a sly cigar behind a tree, not ask his opinion on… what _is_ Fred asking exactly?

'Did you hurt your back or your head?' Fred retorts. 'Askin' Diana to have me, of course! It's perfect don't you see? I could whisk her up this hill right now, no one would miss us for half an hour, and propose to her in our Sunrise Garden.'

'You're right,' Gilbert agrees, 'it does sound perfect, except for one thing. Diana's still got a year at Queens.'

'Only because her uppity aunt talked her into taking a First Class licence. Second class only takes one year. She's qualified right now. On top of that I overheard Ruby tell Diana that she was givin' up the school at Newbridge. That's two miles away. _Two,_ not fifty. All I have to do is pluck up the courage to speak and I can finally make her mine.'

That would explain why Diana whisked Anne away in such a hurry – though not the scheming look on her face. If Diana hopes to be proposed to, surely she would be seeking Fred's arm not Anne's. Gilbert leans against a tree trunk, if his back wasn't bothering him he would take Fred for a hike, encourage him to get out his pipe and get pondering, like Pa. Something tells him his friend needs to think on this before he acts. Then again, Diana is only in Avonlea for another week. Her aunt has bestowed her with a spectacular reward for passing her first year at Queens: a tour of the ancient ruins in Rome, home of her pagan namesake.

It makes sense that Fred would seek out a promise from Diana before she went away. Gilbert felt the same once, and Anne was only going to Charlottetown. He can't see a precious girl like Diana take a knife to her thumb, however. Can't see a sensible boy like Fred believing a blood oath meant more than a ring…

'A ring? Have you got a ring?' Gilbert asks him.

Fred rakes his hair, then wipes the pomade on the seat of his Sunday best suit.

'I thought that was old fashioned. Ain't we supposed to shop for that together, make sure it fits?'

Not that he has the money for one, but if Diana happens to like garnets then hopefully his Ma's would do.

Gilbert notices Fred's shoulder's sag when moments before he had been so sure, and gives his chum a hearty slap on his back. He truly admires his courage. Diana's money, her parents' sniffy opinions, they are nothing to the size of Fred's heart.

'I take it back, Fred. Diana doesn't need a ring. She just needs you.'

The sudden smile on Fred Wright's face comes close to stretching his new moustache in two.

'You're right, Gil. I don't need a some trinket to win her over. Diana's a lot more down to earth than you know.'

Gilbert looks at his shoes. He had seen exactly how down to earth Diana Barry could be; she had once rolled the grass at the Sunrise Garden flat whilst tangled in the arms of the boy before him.

' – public declaration is what this really calls for. I'm a hero in this town. It's time I claimed my prize, and those Barry's won't be able to do a blessed thing about it. Thank you, Gilbert,' says Fred, earnestly. There are beads of perspiration on his brow, and his hand when it is proffered is decidedly damp. 'You'll stand up with me, won't you, on our big day?'

Gilbert nods. He is about to ask if Fred would like him to fetch the lucky girl when Fred straightens his hat and marches back down the hill toward Soren's place. There is no chance for Gilbert to catch up with him, and not only because his back. Sam Gillis is making his way up the hill, and Micah Sloane behind him. Micah reaches Gilbert first - Sam has his belly to lug up with him – and signals for them to go further into the trees.

His watery eyes peer down the hill, then he clears his throat, uncomfortably.

'Was sorry not to see your mother, today.'

'May's had a fever for a day or two, though it's probably just her teeth.'

Gilbert isn't sure why he is telling Micah this; he just senses some small talk is in order. He doesn't know Micah all that well. He is one of Charlie's many bachelor uncles, who has lived thirty years with another. Word is he's a frequent visitor to a banjo player from Grafton. Aside from church Gilbert never sees him. By the time their meeting is over, however, he will have seen more of Micah Sloane than he ever wanted to.

'Heard you moved – _to the cottage,'_ he whispers, and then realising Sam is about to reach them quickly unbuttons the front of his trousers.

Gilbert starts and shifts away, his back twinging dangerously.

'Mr Sloane!'

'Hold your tongue,' he hisses, 'you want Sam to see us?'

Gilbert gives his head a vigorous shake.

'There now,' says Micah, and releases the trapdoor of his long johns in order to bear his fuzzy buttocks. 'What do you think to that?'

Gilbert has turned away by now, but something in Micah's voice makes him turn back. The man sounds anxious and worse, in pain. Despite himself he bends a little closer and takes a proper look. What he sees are claw-like rake marks, the kind that would be made by someone with very long fingernails – a lady who plucked the banjo for instance – over both cheeks. They look to be horribly infected, no wonder the poor man didn't sit down during the wedding service.

'You gotta help me, son. Your Ma makes a real good balm for it.'

'I take it this is a – ah… recurring condition?'

'I keep telling Clarissa to go easy –'

Gilbert's eyes go wide. 'I can't do anything for you right this minute.'

'But I'm desperate. Your Ma ain't worked for months, and now she's got this baby. And I can't go to the doctor, his wife listens at the door, she'll tell _everyone_.'

'Tomorrow. Come see me tomorrow.'

'At the cottage?'

Gilbert nods. He can't say more, Sam Gillis has caught up with them. It isn't his wheezing purple face that needs attention, but the turr'ble itch beneath the crease where his belly rolled over itself. After a second promise, Mrs Bell arrives, along with the expectation that young Blythe will make this quick as the spinster Andrews (Pamela) is coming up next.

Before she can reach them Anne comes running, and tugs on Gilbert's hand.

'Excuse _me_ , Anne Shirley, just because he's your beau don't think you can jump the queue!'

'I'm not the one looking for a love potion,' Anne snaps at her, then suddenly repents. 'Or perhaps I am.'

'What is it, Anne, you looked spooked? Mrs Bell, Miss Andrews, I'm afraid I have to go.'

Lucky for Gilbert he cannot see the look Hannah Bell is giving him, it is Anne's expression that concerns him now. She is alternately pursing and chewing her lips, and her brows are tilted downward.

'What did you mean by love potion? Don't tell me the happy couple are tiffing already?'

The incline is little steeper here and Anne offers Gilbert her arm. He leans on it more heavily than he means to, and she clutches his hand to her breast.

'Anne, you know we can't – '

'You won't believe it, Gilbert. Fred, he… he…'

'What did Fred do?' Gilbert utters, a sinking feeling flooding through him all the way to his polished boots.

'He only went and proposed to Diana in the middle of Soren Blomqvist's parlour.'

'He did _what?_ '

'Your father was outside playing the fiddle, and Fred called for him to be silent, then he fell on one knee before Diana, just when she was about to eat dessert. He asked her in front of everyone, and then… oh it was too awful, Diana threw her pudding at him and ran out of the room. Your father was peering through the window and started up another tune. I'm not sure how many witnessed the scene, but soon everyone must know. I tried to see Diana, but her mother bundled her into the buggy and drove her straight to Orchard Slope –'

'Where is Fred?'

'I don't know!'

A few likely places spring to mind, but instead of dashing headlong to any of them, Gilbert sends out a whistle. A moment later Laurie comes bounding up the slope.

'You haven't spotted one of our ewes out _here!_ ' he gasps, breathlessly. 'I'll never get up that hill, I've had five helpin's of syllabub!'

'It's not the sheep I'm worried about, Laurie lad. It's Fred. Do you know where he might be?'

'Oh that,' says Laurie glumly. 'Pa gave him the wagon. He went after Miss Barry after she threw some Kaka-whatchamacallit at him. What a waste,' he adds, wistfully, 'why not eat it first and toss the napkin?'

'You're a very wise boy,' Anne says and pats Laurie's freckled cheek, then watches him scoot away. 'I have to get back, I'm sorry Gilbert, but this is Dora's day…'

'No, of course,' he mutters, and squeezes her hand – she still has one glove on. 'Things still might turn out right.'

He doesn't believe it. No good comes of a girl who throws Rachel Lynde's prize pudding at you. At first he feels responsible, if he had listened more carefully, made him cool down, offered him solutions… Finally Gilbert has to admit there is nothing that he could have done. Fred was tired of living in limbo; he needed to know where he stood. Gilbert just hopes wherever Fred finds himself standing isn't about to give way.

That evening Gilbert eschews another of his mother's pick up suppers for a thick slice of lard and the coffee bean grinder. The Wright's west field is a quarter mile away, the shepherd's hut tucked in one corner. It is more of a gypsy caravan really, like the Boutes use during harvest. Theirs is painted in brilliant shades of mustard, vermillion and emerald-green. This hut has lower, smaller wheels and is painted all in black. Inside there are two benches running along either side, with a small stove squeezed between them. Along one wall is a series of hooks with sacks of differing sizes hanging from each one. Gilbert grabs one of cornmeal and another of coffee beans, then heads outside and remakes the fire.

His back smarts and after supper he lies flat on the soft meadow grass; nights with close to little sleep suddenly catching up with him. He dreams about the light pouring through the open door, a buttery sunshine of pale gold that touches his skin like the softest caress. It almost tickles, it does tickle and he brushes his hand over his cheek and slowly opens his eyes. When he finds Anne peering down on him he isn't at all surprised.

'Dora asked me to bring some wedding cake for your mother, and she told me where to find you. I thought Laurie would be here,' she adds, dusting his brow with a kiss. 'Our little chaperone.'

'He's worried about his brother, so I told him to go home. The Wrights have closed ranks, but I plan to go over tomorrow.'

They don't talk about Fred and Diana. It can only end in speculation, and besides they have their own lives to discuss. Anne finally has a chance to tell Gilbert what happened at the Echo. It's a simple tale, taking less time to tell than it does to boil the kettle again. Anne had gone back to Mr Oliver in February and filed her report, only to be told there wasn't enough evidence for the Echo to take it to print. Anne wasn't about to let that stop her, and devoted her nights and weekends to interview more people; a teacher who used to work at Queens, the son of a prominent family who was barred from seeing his girl, and best of all, Reverend Naseby who offered to make a formal statement. Anne filed a second report, a third. Finally she had had enough.

'I told Oliver if he wouldn't print it, I would take my story to the Gazette. He simply said, "Good luck with that. Miss Hamilton's father owns that paper." Then, he fired me,' Anne says simply. 'No warning, no nothing. I don't even know why. The Echo is against everything Hearth and Home stand for. They champion their women reporters, even have them on the senior staff. We had this chance to reveal extraordinary hypocrisy, and Oliver blocks it, after encouraging me in the first place. I don't understand. And do you know something, Gilbert, I don't know if I want to. Six months as a cadet and all I managed to do was lose ten pounds and countless nights sleep.'

'Mr Keats will miss you,' says Gilbert, deftly turning the conversation.

'Oh!' Anne exclaims and rolls closer to him. 'I never mentioned the silver lining. He and Mrs Captain are courting.'

Gilbert rolls closer too, their fingers are just touching now and the long grass tickles over their skin.

'Are we courting, Anne?' he says, softly.

'I'm beginning to realise we'll have to if I plan to stay in Avonlea.'

'Stay?'

'Marilla was appalled by how thin I'd become and informed me that she won't countenance my leaving till I get some meat on my bones. I'm even not allowed to leave the house unless I take a pocketful of plumpuffs.'

'Yes, but _stay?_ '

Gilbert tries to roll on his side, instead Anne shuffles closer. Her hand goes to the neckerchief he has twisted round his neck, her long white fingers coiling and uncoiling the ends of the knot at his throat.

'At least until something better comes along,' she teases.

She sighs then and lies on her back and looks up at the sky. It is still a bright and brilliant blue. Behind a hedge of poplars the faintest hint of coral can be seen, as softly pink as her sweet mouth…

Gilbert shifts his hand and tucks it up behind his head, the frogs chirping from the pond.

'Come now, Anne, admit it,' he says, 'what could be better than this? A little house, a big sky, a belly full of cornbread.'

'And you, Blythe,' she says, smiling at him.

Gilbert grins. 'And you.'

 **...**

 _* what Laurie meant to say was kladdkaka which is a gooey chocolate cake served with whipped cream_


	14. Chapter 14

_**Chapter fourteen**_

Two little lambs are born that night, and another in the morning. Gilbert pens the last one with its mother, then trudges back to his house. He needs a long soak and a fresh change of clothes, but filling the tin bath is beyond him. So he takes the shallow tub from the washroom and brings it back to the cottage. He is sitting in it and pouring steaming water over his head when he hears a knock at the door. It hadn't occurred to him to bolt it, and it flies open at the first try.

Gilbert yanks at the sodden sheet that lines the tub and tries to cover himself as Miss Andrews bursts into the cottage. She takes rather longer to make her retreat, confronted as she is by the splendid form of a hard muscled man in a clinging wet sheet. Not that she is looking, of course, only it is impossible not to when she has to be sure Gilbert understands she was _not_ seeking out a love potion yesterday, despite what that minx Anne Shirley claimed. Though now she is here will he please provide her with an exhaustive list of the plant specimens one placed beneath one's pillow; the ones that caused a woman to dream of her future husband? No, she doesn't mind waiting. No, Gilbert's state of undress doesn't bother her at all, in fact would he like her to scrub his back?

Gilbert had never been so happy to see Micah Sloane in his life. And bundled him off with every jar of Cat's Claw that he had. Sam Gillis went away empty handed, the cornstarch he needed was in his own kitchen. Mrs Bell had yet to turn up. Gilbert is just about to heat some fresh water when another hand tries the door.

'Come back tomorrow!' he bellows and peels off his shirt.

'I won't be here tomorrow,' is the reply.

Gilbert immediately yanks back the bolt. Fred is standing there, trying to look like a man who doesn't give a damn, and failing miserably. He digs his hands in his pockets and gives Gilbert a half-hearted smile.

'Just wanted to let you know I'm takin' off. Headin' up to Bright River for the 12 o'clock train to White Sands.'

'What's in White Sands?' Gilbert utters, and then, 'won't you come in? I left the bean grinder at the hut, but I can make some tea.'

'Quit fussin',' Fred says gruffly.

This is hard enough as it is, he doesn't need Gilbert treating him with kid gloves. Kid gloves, like the kind Diana once gave him… and he screws up his face and shakes his head. He will not let her in, not even the memory of her memory shall be allowed to rattle round his hollowed out heart.

'I'm applyin' to the police force. I heard they're takin' candidates for a one month trial. Mostly fitness and some lit'racy, and that's improved no end since I started my own detective work –'

'But the farm? Yellow Birches will be yours one day. It's practically yours right now.'

'Claude can manage the heavy work, he's almost seventeen, and Hal's not far behind. And you know how well Laurie can handle our herd.'

'He won't handle you being gone.'

Fred rubs a fist into his eye and gives a suspicious sniff.

'He told me to go; they want me to go. If they can accept it, why can't you?'

His voice cracks and he gulps back tears he has yet to let himself cry. Gilbert wants to wrap his arms around him, but he knows if he tries Fred will push him away. The only thing to do is to get down to brass tacks and look at this for what it is. Gilbert feels loathe to say her name, but if Fred won't…

'Diana said no, I take it.'

Fred's brows rise up past his cap.

'Anne didn't tell you?'

'Only about the cake.'

'Huh.' Fred says, with obvious surprise. 'I'll be.'

Gilbert grins despite himself, then grabs his shirt and stuffs his feet into his boots.

'You got that pipe with you?' Fred nods. 'Then light it up, Tourt. Give me one last hike before you go.'

They end up walking the seven miles to Bright River. Adam Wright takes the cart and goes on ahead with his son's battered trunk. He gives Gilbert a lift back to the Blythe place, and Gilbert gives him a promise to help all he can while Fred is away. He's not sure how exactly, when he can't even make the same promise to Pa. But it'll all work out; it has to. You can't love a woman like Anne and not know that.

She is waiting for him on the front porch of his house, in a white linen dress and a spray of lily-of-the-valley tucked behind her ear. And it dawns on him: this is what it must feel like to come home from a hard day's work to the welcoming arms of your wife. It makes everything right, this kind of love. Makes sense folks take it seriously. You don't trifle with this kind of thing; you honour it for the treasure it is. Marriage isn't something you played at or pretended, but entered into reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly…

'Hello Gilbert,' Anne says, her hands shading her eyes as she rushes up the path to greet him. She stops short when she sees his face and cocks her head to one side. 'What is it?'

'I just saw Fred off at the station.'

'I know, I never dreamed it would end this way.'

'Diana didn't mention it? I assumed when she pulled you away at the wedding –'

'Ruby's resigning from Newbridge. Diana thought it might do for me, seeing as I'm jobless again. If anything I hope I can change Ruby's mind –'

Anne falters, thinking of the letters Davy sends her; he doesn't sound like someone who is looking for a wife, yet Ruby seems so sure…

'Anne, you needn't tell me if you feel you can't, but did Diana give you any reason for refusing Fred?'

Any reason? The moment Anne arrived at Orchard Slope last evening, Diana issued a laundry list of justifications: Not one person in her family approved of him, not one person in his family approved of her; she wanted to teach, he wanted a farmer's wife, she wanted the prestige of a first class license, he wanted her to take that poky Newbridge school. On and on it went, but it ended very decisively. Diana definitely, definitely, definitely did not want to be proposed to at someone else's wedding. Why she would be apoplectic if some _farm boy_ caused such a commotion in the middle of her reception!

It was 'farm boy' that did it. Diana sounded exactly like her mother. Anne knew why. Ebba Barry never wavered from her assertion that Fred Wright was an uneducated simpleton who was only after one thing. And yesterday Ebba had triumphed as he finally proved her right. What did he mean by behaving in so sweaty, clumsy and desperate fashion!

Compared with whom, Anne wanted to ask: the fawning dandies in Charlottetown? But she didn't. She mopped Diana's tears and reassured her that Mrs Lynde had managed to get the chocolate stains out of the cotton rug just fine, and that Josie Pye had gone home with hives an hour before because no one told her there was shrimp paste in the sandwiches. After that Mrs Barry left the room. Only then did Anne dare add that Fred did what he did because realised how much he loved her.

The last comment saw Diana look up from her handkerchief with dark eyes scrunched in a scowl.

'Well you know what _I_ realised the moment he fell down on one silly knee. I don't love him, Anne. I don't love him _at all!_ '

Anne did not believe her, not even for a minute. You only had to see Diana fall onto her big satin bed and convulse with sobs to know her feelings for this farm boy were far more complicated than any girl of eighteen could rightly comprehend. But there is no easy way she can relay this to Gilbert, and not only because it would break a confidence. Aspiring writer or no, Anne knows she can never do to justice to the mysterious workings of the human heart.

In the end she doesn't have to. Gilbert exhales loudly and sits with her on the porch.

'Forget it,' he says, 'I'm sure Diana has good reason. Spoiled and precious she might be, but never malicious –'

'Diana Barry is _not_ spoiled! She's not –' Anne insists in response to Gilbert's look. 'At least not in the way you think. Imagine being raised to think only getting a husband in a village where every boy is considered beneath you? Imagine being whisked away, against your wishes, to live in a mansion where everyone treats you like a princess? I know when she went to live with her aunt people said she got too big for her boots. But the same could be said for Fred. If he thought for one moment Diana might refuse him he would have never put her on the spot like that.'

'You think when a fellow asks a girl he should have some doubt whether she'll say yes?'

'Of course he should. A woman likes to know a man can never quite believe his luck when he marries her, that way he will never take her for granted.'

'You've thought a lot about this.'

'Yes, I have, haven't I? Perhaps I should revive my old idea about writing an advice column. I'm beginning to sound rather wise.'

'It's Avonlea,' says Gilbert,' this ol' place always brings out the best in you.'

'It does?'

'Uh huh… and your freckles.'

He presses his lips to a good number of them and Anne makes a soft sigh.

'Oh help. Every thought I am having right now is most unDora-like.'

'Whisper them to me,' says Gilbert hotly, and kisses the lobe of her ear.

If she wasn't melting before she is now, and a low groan emanates from her throat.

'You look so hot and dusty, I would dearly like to take you the stream...'

'Our stream?' this as he runs his mouth over her neck.

'Mmm, yes, I want to go there with you, undress you slowly and apply tender ministrations to your big, brown back.'

Gilbert takes a sharp inward breath, when Anne's hand finds his inner thigh he takes another.

'Anne, I ache for you so badly…'

'I know, oh I know. That night at Charlottetown doesn't seem real.'

'Or the night in Kingsport…'

With each utterance they nuzzle each other's faces, till their breaths mingle and their lips finally touch.

'I have to kiss you.'

'I have to kiss you too. Here…' and she rests her lips on his unshaven cheek. 'And here…' now they graze by the scar on his brow…

' _Here!_ What are you two playing at, gropin' each other like animals and on your mother's front porch too!'

Gilbert stands up awkwardly, then realises he had much better sit.

'Mrs Bell, I believe I said you should come to the cottage, not my house.'

Hannah Bell is a picture of pique. Mina Pye is right; such audacity for so young a person. It wasn't bad enough he missed church this morning, he was already back to his Romeo ways and he didn't even open the gate! Well needs must. Mary Alice couldn't keep wearing gloves forever; her beau was getting leery. If he discovered the state of her hands the match may not end in betrothal, and she was getting on nineteen.

'I did go to the cottage. Obviously, you weren't there. Now are you goin' to make up a cure for warts or shall I take my business elsewhere?'

Gilbert frowns. 'Business? You don't mean you plan on _paying_?'

'Will if you can cure 'em, Doctor Spencer was a bust. If you ask me he made them even worse. Cost me five dollars all told. Tell you what, Gil Blythe, you cure these warts and I'll give _you_ five dollars.'

Anne and Gilbert look at each other. Five dollars! That was almost a week's wage when he taught at White Sands. A brilliant smile spreads over Gilbert's face, and after a subtle adjustment he strides with some nonchalance up to the gate.

How tall and manly he is getting; Mina was right about that, too. A little unkempt and sunburned for her liking, but then Anne Shirley is all sorts of peculiar. The curious girl follows Gilbert up to the gate then dips into her apron pocket, retrieving – of all things – a yellow pencil and a bright red penny notebook.

Gilbert jots down the particulars: _Verucca vulgaris Bell $5_ and jots down the date.

'Sign right here, please,' he says, passing the receipt over the gate. 'Mrs Bell, you have yourself a deal.'


	15. Chapter 15

_**Chapter fifteen**_

It is June before Gilbert manages to show Anne the mysterious plant Fred found in the spruce forest. It hadn't been in bloom then, it was just a collection of sticky, hairy leaves. Primula auricular, perhaps. He won't know for sure until he sees it in flower – if Soren's goats haven't got to it first. Nobody wants them, they have never produced a drop of milk, nor bred so much as one kid. Soren's house was let immediately, and his neat one acre plot. But the goats are currently homeless and dwell on the hillside unaware of their plight.

'I'll have 'em,' says Laurie, petting the white one. 'I need a good beast to pull my new cart.'

' _Two_ goats?' says Anne, nudging the black one away. He won't stop nuzzling her pockets in hopes of another treat. 'No more biscuits do you hear, you greedy little thing!'

'Two's better than one, ain't it?' says Laurie, squinting up at the sky.

Anne tugs his red felt cap till it almost touches his nose.

'So are two eyes. You must stop staring at the sun.'

'But Miss Shirley, Sholto says an eclipse is a sign of the _End Times_.'

'It's not for several days yet, dearest, the least you can do is try not to go blind before then.'

Laurie scrunches up his nose, then takes chase after the goats. He disappears into the trees just as Gilbert strides out of them, carrying a nondescript flower in his hand.

'Now, darling apprentice, what do you think to this?'

'You told me you thought it was some sort of evening primrose,' Anne says, bemusedly.

'I did.'

'But it's purple.'

'I'd say it was closer to amethyst. But that's not what astonishes me. Look closer,' says Gilbert, 'you've seen this before.'

Anne is all ready to say that she hasn't, when her wide eyes narrow with growing fascination. She takes the sprig from Gilbert's hand, rubbing the leaves between her fingers, and inhaling the scent from its small heart-shaped petals. It is familiar and yet it isn't. How is it possible that she recognises the look of this flower when she has never seen one before? It's as though one of her dearest dreams is coming true and she has found one world within another, here on a little forgotten hillside…

Gilbert observes her, excitedly, waiting for Anne to catch on. Slowly a smile spreads over her face and she lights up with comprehension.

'This primula is in –'

'Ma's remedy book! The wobbly little drawing that looks like it was done by a child. Isn't it incredible? I've never seen this plant before. Not anywhere on the Island, not even the Kingsport Gardens, and they have some of the finest specimens in the world.'

Anne shakes her head, her braids shaking with her. She wears them in two loops tied with two silk ribbons and they shimmer in the sunshine.

'But that illustration labelled it as an alpine flower. And it was left uncoloured. It's possible we're making a misidentification.'

'There's only one way to find out!'

They march back down the hill, driving the goats along with them. Eventually they realise they will need some rope, and decide to call in at Soren's old house.

'Hello, Martin!' Anne calls. 'The new porch is looking splendid.'

It isn't. It's as lopsided as a ship's deck in a storm. Fortunately the fellow who will be renting this house for the summer is well used to that.

Martin spits nails into his hand and stands back proudly.

'He likes a quiet smoke, does Davy. This porch'll be a perfect place for that.'

'When does he get back?' asks Gilbert, fists deep in his pocket.

Martin regards him, sheepishly.

'Makes land at Charlottetown on the twentieth, reckons he'll be home for the midsummer dance.'

'He better be,' Anne says, laughing, 'Ruby has been working on her gown for weeks. Two hundred hours have gone into it, and just as many yards of lace!'

'She's a lovely lass,' Martin muses. 'There's no bonnier girl, 'cepting my Dora,' and he coughs. 'Oh and you, Anne, of course.'

Anne gives him a tender look. She has had her moments with Martin Rossi, when he was their hired man. But he has since become very dear to her, and her gracious response confirms it.

'A good sister is what I make. And Dora and Davy have been very good to me.'

'Those ribbons are from Davy-boy, I bet,' says Martin, eyeing silk the shade of lapis lazuli.

Anne touches them self-consciously. Davy had given them to her last Christmas, and Margaret found them in her room. Inside the card that came with it he had scrawled that he wished he could give Anne the whole sky. She has never worn them till today – and suddenly wishes she hadn't.

'Come _on!'_ Laurie protests, stamping his bare foot, 'are we gettin' some rope or ain't we?'

When they reach Newbridge Road Laurie goes onto Yellow Birches tugging the goats behind him. Gilbert and Anne dash into the Blythe place. Little May is in the back porch sleeping soundly in her basket. When Gilbert calls, 'Hello, hello!' she doesn't even stir.

Ro appears from the kitchen, a smudge of flour on her chin. She is making a strawberry pie for her husband, who turns fifty-nine today, but the lattice work top is proving beyond her and it shows in her frustrated face. After giving her hands a good scrub, Anne deftly takes over. Once she has it in the oven she discovers mother and son in the dining room. The remedy book lies open on a pen and ink drawing of the flower Anne saw today. Gilbert is carefully copying it into his own book, adding more accurate details from the cutting he has in his hand.

Ro has her feet up on a dining chair and is drinking a cold cup of tea. Anne finds another cup on the mantel and shifts it to the table.

'I forgot how much work a baby is,' Ro sighs, 'I keep making myself a cup of tea and never finding time to drink it. So tell me, Anne, what is my dear son babbling about? Anyone would think he had never seen a primula before.'

Gilbert ignores this and continues his drawing, while Anne relates the tale. When she describes the hairy leaves, Ro's gold eyes light up.

'Primula villosa!'

'Yes Ma,' says Gilbert, patiently. 'It says so right here. But this isn't your handwriting, is it?'

'Bring it over to your poor mother,' says Ro, winking at Anne, 'and let me take a peek.'

A moment later her tired face mellows and a look of fond remembrance passes over her.

'This was written by a Mrs Irving. Her boy Paul did the drawing, when he was eight years old.'

'Eight!' Anne exclaims, just as Gilbert asks, 'Who are the Irvings?'

Anne tucks herself next to Mrs Blythe and ponders the drawing anew. She would have been proud to make such a study at twelve, but _eight_. What an eye the child had for particulars, even if he struggled to make a clear line.

'The Irvings?' Anne says. 'You mentioned them before. They once lived in the garden at the top of the hill, the one Paul named the Sunrise Garden?'

Gilbert drags his eyes away from the book, looking at Anne as if to say, How do you know that?

Ro notes his expression and chuckles.

'If you'd deigned to come to one of my _pagan rites_ as you call them, you might know something about them. Yes Anne, the Irvings had a house at the Sunrise Garden. They hoisted it on wheels and lugged it away when they left Avonlea… goodness, forty years ago. There were four children, two girls and twin boys. Paul was such a clever lad, real sensitive – well, you can see from his work. He gave the drawing to me when he left. I never knew where to keep it so I thought it might as well go in here. Everything dear to me – anything that doesn't have a beating heart, that is – is in this book.'

'And Paul was dear to you,' Anne hints.

'I cried buckets when he went away. The day he left he brought me this picture, and I shall never forget what he said: "When this flower blooms I'll come back for you, Rowena Gillaley." You can imagine how I looked for it. I probably got my start in herbs from all the searching I did. After a while I got to thinking he had given me a drawing of an imaginary plant. He was that sort of boy, you see.'

'Oh,' Anne sighs, 'a true kindred spirit.'

'But it's an alpine,' Gilbert insists.

Kindred spirits are all very well, and the tale was a sweet one, to be sure. But a deep curiosity has Gilbert now: the problem that cannot be solved.

'How did a small boy in Avonlea get hold of something so rare, and why has it never bloomed till now?'

'I don't know –' Ro begins.

'I do,' Anne says. 'There is something magical in that place. Whenever I have been to the Sunrise Garden the very thing I have needed is the very thing I've found. The strange thing was I never knew I needed it until the Garden gave her gifts to me…'

The dining room goes quiet, each person lost in their thoughts until a reedy wail breaks the silence. Anne presses Mrs Blythe to remain in her chair and goes to little May. The child seems startled to see her, but her dimpled knees cling to her tightly as Anne sits the wee girl on her hip.

She hears Gilbert in the kitchen making his mother a fresh cup of tea. The fresh scent of verbena and lemon balm fills the air and the baby gurgles gleefully.

'You like that, Mayflower?' says Gilbert, chucking her under her chin.

'I think it's you, she likes,' says Anne.

She smiles at him shyly; their much missed closeness, the baby on her hip, conjuring unuttered and utterly secret daydreams of one day having a child with him. Her eyelids lower as he comes nearer, and a delicious smile curls her lips, then she yelps as May grabs hold of her ribbon and yanks it into her drooling mouth.

Gilbert stifles a laugh – though barely – and unknots the silken ties; ignoring the satisfaction it gives him to remove Davy's gift from her beautiful hair. He stuffs them into the pocket of her apron, his hands brushing over her summer weight skirts. Then he darts to the other side of the kitchen to seek out something in the pantry. The feel of Anne's thigh beneath her dress his hand sent volts straight through him. It takes him a moment to settle his thoughts before he can find the right pot.

'Clove, clove… here it is! You know I never asked you,' he continues, as he rinses his hands in a basin, 'if you are planning to go to the midsummer dance?'

Gilbert applies a tiny amount of the brown paste onto his finger as he says this, and dabs it on May's pink gums.

'That's better than a ribbon, isn't it, little girl?'

The little girl squeals again. Anne sits the child in her basket, and hands her the latest bauble John has made.

'Sorry, Gilbert,' she says pertly, 'I think I missed that. What were it you were asking me, exactly?'

Her hands go to her hips, accentuating her cinched leather belt and the flaring skirt beyond. If Gilbert appears to stare it is only because the tiny buttons down the front of her dress are pulling slightly. Maybe he is dreaming – he dreams of her so often now – but he is sure he can make out the little satin bow peeping between the seams of her shirtwaist.

Gilbert drags his eyes away and offers Anne a cheeky grin.

'You're right,' he admits, 'allow me to rephrase that.' He takes her hand in his and kisses it with a loud smack. 'Miss Shirley,' he says, grandly, 'will you honour me with your company at the Midsummer dance next week?'

Anne laughs. 'Don't you have your wart creams to make up? I believe all Avonlea has purchased a pot.'

Gilbert drops her hand and shrugs.

'Once I lowered my price to a dollar.'

'A clever introductory offer. You'll be hawking your wares in Charlottetown next. With a stripy blazer and a bowler hat, all you need is the sandwich-board.'

'Don't forget the waxy moustache.'

Gilbert raises his eyebrows, playfully, and hoists himself onto the bench. Dipping his fingers into the basin and removing the oil of cloves.

'Actually, once the barley's sown I'm heading to White Sands. Not to pitch my potions, I want to see Fred.'

At the mention of his name Anne draws nearer.

'And how is he?'

'More fretful than he should be. The police force have a height restriction, Fred's convinced they'll overlook him when they select their applicants.'

'But Laurie says he's doing so well.'

'He's also taken a bit of a hit. These things can rattle a man more than womenfolk realise.'

'I'm guessing you have a plan to him help get him over that.'

'It's my turn for secrets now. But I promise you I'll be back for the dance.'

His hands go round her neck and he pulls her closer. Anne's big grey eyes stare into him, and he's suddenly overcome. Things seemed so bleak last winter. He had stood with her in this very room and felt a shadow fall, one that he couldn't seem to get out from, no matter how hard he tried. Now he feels invincible; life is easy and good and sweet. But he can't put all this into words, so he says:

'Will you wear your yellow sprig dress for me, and flowers in your hair? You looked so lovely at Dora's wedding.'

'Josie thought I looked like a milk maid. She likes to rub it in that I couldn't manage city life.'

'Well the next time she 'rubs it in' be sure to remind her to rub her wart cream thoroughly too –'

'Gilbert! A doctor isn't supposed to break a patient's trust like that.'

'But I'm not a doctor, am I?

'What are you then?'

For a moment he almost says husband. Something similar had happened on the steps of the Redmond Hall when he almost called Anne his wife. But he catches himself – and just in time too. Another answer occurs to him now, one as right and true as Anne herself.

He knits his fingers at the back of her neck, and rests his head on hers.

'You know very well what I am, Anne Shirley. I'm yours.'


	16. Chapter 16

_**Chapter sixteen**_

If Avonlea is like a cross; her main roads intersecting at the vital juncture where blacksmith, hall, church, and Lynde's Hollow meet, White Sands is like a crescent, her wide streets following the convex curve of the limestone cliffs that shape it. There is a bustling fishing port to the east, a sprawl of summer houses to the west, and in its heart a grand hotel that attracts performers from as far afield as Boston!

The police station is situated just behind it, providing a prime view of the shenanigans regularly occurring at the back entrance of the hotel. Big crime occurs in Souris and Tignish, where rumrunners and pirates make spectacular headlines in the Echo. The Gazette is more concerned with corruption, but only as it affects the well-to-do towns; from watered down milk in Summerside, to the overblown budget of Charlottetown hospital. The last time a reporter came to White Sands was to interview Tilda Tomasson and her Tremendous Tumbling Trout. A den of sin, White Sands is not, but it does have a recurring problem; one that often occurs in places where the very wealthy and the very poor mix freely, and that's pickpocketing.

It is typically done by children; who deliver pocket watches and purses to their masters the way spaniels fetch dead ducks. Such delinquents are hard to detect and harder to apprehend being nimble, quick and small. For the first time Fred Wright's stature is an asset. He can weave through a crowded street and pursue a thief to the smallest of hideouts. Constable Mackerson rates him highly. But Sergeant Swan says rules are rules: Anyone may apply to the police, but only men 5'8'' and over can win a place in his force.

Fred slumps against a willow set in the square of lawn in front of the hotel. Gilbert is staying at a modest inn but the hotel's coffee is good and strong – something he came to depend upon when he was a teacher at White Sands. Across the way is a view of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, rippling under late afternoon sun. Beyond that is Newfoundland, and beyond that Ireland, England, France, Germany and the Alpines where primula villosa blooms. It is quite the mystery how it came to be in Avonlea, and he breathes in deep as though the briny air might carry the scent of the little purple flower.

A naval officer struts by, and another runs to catch up with him, slinging his arm around his chum and they saunter toward the hotel. Fred watches them intently, admiring their smart red jackets. They outshine the modest garb a policeman has to wear – not that he'll ever get to. Every morning Sergeant Swan takes the trouble to remind Fred there is no way he'll allow the recruitment of a Lilliputian like him.

'You used to live here,' Fred says to Gilbert after asking about this peculiar word. 'Is that somethin' a White Sander says? I've never heard of it, and keep tellin' Swan I'm from Avonlea.'

Gilbert joins Fred by the tree.

'It means you look like someone from Lilliput,' he explains. Fred looks at him blankly. 'Gulliver's Travels?' Another blank look. 'It doesn't matter. The metaphor is weak, the story is about perspective, not size.'

Fred grunts. 'Glad you think so.'

'It doesn't matter what I think. The question is how do we change Swan's point of view?'

'I was thinkin' of gettin' some lifts for my boots. A good thick sole would add a few inches.'

'Tourt, they already know how tall you are, they measured you in your union suit.'

'It's hopeless, then!' Fred fires back.

He strides out toward the cliff as though he thought he could fly right off it, then marches back to his friend.

'I might as well slink back to Avonlea and give the Barrys a fresh chance to gloat, because it doesn't matter how good I am, Swan won't be budged!'

There is no doubt Swan is a stickler for rules. Gilbert had seen that first hand when he called on his mother last Christmas. The only thing he cared about was making sure his constable had followed proper procedure. It didn't matter how many times he was asked about the fate of Miss Mawsey; if it wasn't in his rulebook he would not discuss it. Later Ro had called him an unfeeling fussbudget. John and Gilbert knew better. Swan's pompous moustache gave him away: it was self-doubt that drove him, couched in self regard.

The old Avonlea schoolmaster had been just the same, and Fred Wright had no problem getting round him. Now all he wants to do is slump against the willow tree. This isn't like him, that's for sure. Words like hopeless are used by a man who wants to wallow – and wallowing is for pigs not for the hero of Avonlea.

There's a time for going softly and there's a time to poke the bear. Gilbert decides to go with the latter. He squares up to his friend and narrows his eyes.

'You sure you're not just _homesick_ , Fred? You've never been away from Yellow Birches before.'

The answer tumbles out of Fred's mouth before he knows he's said it.

'Sure, I miss Avonlea, 'specially at this time of year. But I like this new life too. I see the trouble that happens round here and I know this town could use me. Police work's not like farmin', where I have to wait for half a year to harvest what I planted. In White Sands I can make a difference right now.'

His brown eyes go wide as he says this, and he lifts his head straight up. The spirit in Fred is fighting back – and he trusts the fight even, if he doesn't quite trust himself.

Gilbert feels his eyes prick; with relief or tears, he's not sure. He drags his chum away from the willow and back toward the hotel. They have half an hour together before Fred is due back at the station; Gilbert's plan is barely formed, but small matters like how and when are nothing if Fred has the will.

'Final drill's tomorrow, right?'

'You know it is, Gil.'

'Well, if Swan won't budge we better do the budging. Here's what I think we should do…'

Fred returns to the police station just before five, Gilbert hastens to the haberdashers. There are two in White Sands and the one he wants sells purses and pocketbooks. The proprietor, a Mr Morrissey, is in a foul mood, and throws the coins across the counter when Gilbert points out he has been short-changed.

Gilbert exits the shop cursing himself. He hoped the purchase would be one of many unremarkable exchanges during Morrissey's day. If there is a chance he should recognise Gilbert later, or the items he bought, the whole plan would unravel. He stuffs the package under his arm and bowls straight into Davy Rossi.

'Gil Blythe! What are you doing here?'

He looks excessively happy to see him and has the grin to go with it. Before Gilbert can respond a pair of young ladies exit the haberdashers, and instantly wish they hadn't laced their corsets so tight. They can barely catch their breath for the sight of Davy's splendid scarlet coat. They look away coquettishly, only to floored by the Adonis beside him, so tall and broad and handsome, and such flashing hazel eyes. Their swooning and blushing has Gilbert stooping to make sure they're quite well, before tipping his hat as they totter by.

'Davy, hello. Your father said you weren't due back till tomorrow.'

'More or less,' Davy breezes.

He glances at the haberdashery window and as if to admire his reflection, then motions for Gilbert to follow him down the street. They pass several store fronts before Davy halts on a quieter stretch of path.

'So…' he says, turning to Gilbert, 'what brought you to Morrisseys? It can't be the service. The man who runs that place is a pill.'

Gilbert can't help agreeing, then adds, 'How do you know him? I can't imagine you having much need for lace and buttons back in the day.'

'A good thief makes sure he knows everyone. But those days are behind me now. I'm a new man!' Davy boasts, and proffers his shoulder, now bearing the braid of Ensign. 'I'm a wiser man too,' he says, eagerly. 'I reckon Providence brought us together today. I know a little place up the coast with the best sirloins and ale. Let me buy you supper, Gil, as a way to make amends.'

Gilbert isn't astonished, so much as baffled. He hasn't seen Davy since Christmas night, nor heard much news – though he supposed this was by design. Anne barely mentions him, which is hardly surprising given her divided loyalties. Gilbert mightn't trust Davy, but he also knows that the sooner bridges are mended the better. It does not mean that they have to be friends, just friendly.

'On one condition,' he says to Davy.

'What's that?' says Davy, warily.

Gilbert slaps him on the back.

'There better not be any moose on the menu.'

He decides to stick with bread and cheese. Davy sticks with ale. Prince Edward Island might be tea total, but the Duke of York Arms is well known for getting around that. Davy must be a regular here, and is certainly more relaxed. His lanky frame sprawls over his chair, long legs crossed at the ankle and very much in the way of the staff.

The older maid kicks at his boots, the younger maid pauses coyly, till that cheeky Navy officer tucks in his great big feet. Davy grins as she saunters past, and grabs at her apron strings.

'Haven't seen a female for a while,' he jokes.

'And one girl in particular,' Gilbert adds.

Davy sits forward in his chair. His hat is on the table and he picks it up and fingers the braid.

'Don't worry, I'm thinkin' of her, I'm thinkin' of her all the time.'

He wants to add that he understands now, the way Gilbert hankers after Anne. But he bites his tongue. The last time he made such a comment he ended up with a broken nose. He clears his throat and puts down his hat.

'I ain't said sorry yet.'

'You don't need –'

'I do. I know I do. I started that fight even if I didn't throw the first punch.'

The glass of ale is starting to look tempting and Gilbert signals the maid. He not looking for an apology, why would he when he holds himself accountable? Still he wants to know why, _why_ Davy was looking to hurt him that night. And he admits this now.

Davy scratches the back of his head. He has fine silky hair the colour of wet straw and it falls back into place effortlessly.

'I'll tell you, but first you gotta know I wasn't thinkin' straight that night. Fact is I was just plain scared –'

'Scared? Of what?'

'Of _what?_ Job had it easy compared to what I've faced. Livin' on the streets, the things you see, the things you're forced to do. I _never_ had the love you had.'

'But Dora –'

'I'm not talkin' about a _sister's_ love, Gil,' says Davy, raising his brows.

He takes a deep slurp of beer and slowly shakes his head.

'A man like you wouldn't understand, I seen the way girls throw themselves at you. The only thing I ever got was a tormentin' illness from a feckless tramp. Your Ma was a great help to me, I ain't had a bout for months. You don't know how lucky you are havin' a mother like that. I had to make my own way in the world, saw the Navy as my only chance. It was the one dream I dared to hang onto… till my angel appeared –'

'Anne?'

'Yeah… what – no!' Davy scoffs, rolling his eyes. 'I mean Ruby! The most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and she wants me – even after telling her about that tramp. I've _never_ been loved like that before. Then this rumour starts up about the baby and I knew I was gonna lose everything. There's no way Ruby would have me if she thought I was responsible. I didn't mean for folks to blame you, I just wanted to take the heat off me.'

Davy does not look at Gilbert as he says this; instead his gaze follows the young maid as she makes her way around the room. His time on the streets had made him callous, and the Navy was making him cocky. The love of a good woman could change all that, and it looks like Davy wants to be changed. But Gilbert isn't going to make it easy for him.

'Forget about me, how could you say what you did about Anne, when you're her…'

Gilbert can't bring himself to say the word, when in his gut he always feels that Davy acts more like his rival than her brother.

Davy surprises Gilbert now and starts to chuckle.

'How can you possibly think that any stinkin' thing that comes out of my mouth can touch Anne? She's above and beyond us mortals, Gil. I said what I said because I panicked. I regretted it ever since.'

'Then why not stop the rumours that you and I fought over Margaret? Some folks thought May was mine.'

Davy frowns. 'Who's May?'

It's Gilbert's turn to sit up now. He simply assumed the Avonlea grapevine stretched as far as the Pacific Ocean.

'Margaret's child.'

'Who called her _that?_ ' Davy grimaces. 'Reminds me of a jersey cow.'

'Margaret refused to name her.'

Gilbert eyes him coldly and Davy sees he has gone to far. It is an occupational hazard with him, and why he is so suited to life at sea. He is the only one who volunteers to climb to the crow's nest during a storm.

'I didn't mean anything by it, what do I know about babies? That'll be why you moved out of your folks' house, couldn't stand the bawlin', I bet.'

'Ruby told you that, I suppose.'

The maid brings the ale for Gilbert. Davy slouches again, his blue eyes cast to the ceiling and he breaks into another grin.

'She is the _sweetest_ thing. Don't know how you could grow up next such loveliness and not fall under her spell… Of course, Anne's fine lookin' too .'

Gilbert laughs. 'You sound like your father.'

'You mean I just put my foot in it. See what a bunglin' fool I am? You have to forgive me, Gil, my life turned round for the better when you and I crossed paths. I've missed your friendship.'

'Come on, Davy, we were hardly friends.'

'That's true,' says Davy, 'but I'd like to be. So what do you say, can we start over?'

His sunburned hand reaches across the table, outstretched in hopes of a shake.

'I'd like that,' says Gilbert, passing him his empty mug. 'I'd also like another ale.'

 **...**

* _the height restriction is true. I found this out after I had written about Fred deciding to join, but instead of starting again I decided to make it part of the story._

 _* a union suit is a brand of long underwear worn as one garment._

 _* ensign is one up from midshipman in the Navy_


	17. Chapter 17

_**Chapter seventeen**_

Not until Gilbert returns to the inn does he realise his mistake. He pats down his pockets then scans the ground as though he might have dropped it. He hasn't of course; he left the parcel from the haberdashers back at the Duke of York. He isn't used to such strong ale, all he wants to do is sleep, but the hike back should only take half an hour – if he can make his legs walk straight.

'I better get going, I need it for the morning.'

Davy shrugs. 'You think a sly grogger is gonna put that parcel by in case you come back? You'll never see it again, I know that much. What wassit, some geegaw for Anne? Just buy her another, I reckon she's worth it.'

'Morrisseys don't open on Saturday.'

'The other haberdashers do. Open till two. _Open till two!_ ' Davy repeats, tickled with his rhyme.

'They don't sell what I'm after.'

'Whaddayou after?' Davy lurches unsteadily and pulls Gilbert away from the inn. 'I think better with some smoke in my chest. Roll me a cigarette and tell me what you need.'

Gilbert staggers over with him and they sit heavily on a wrought iron bench.

'I'll tell you, but you have keep it to yourself. It's a seee-cret.'

'Undershtood,' Davy nods. 'So what are you in a flap about?'

'Fred.'

'You buyin' lace and bows for _Fred?_ '

'No!' Gilbert snorts. 'Gimme your papers and shut your trap. The parcel contains a pocketbook, and a handkerchief too, for the drill tomorrow… or is it today?'

He plucks a plug of tobacco from Davy's leather pouch and rolls it inside the paper; even with all that beer inside him his hands remain steady and sure.

'Here.'

Davy lights it and takes a deep drag.

'I know you gotta heap of brains on top of everythin' else, Gil, but I don' see the connection.'

'We made a plan. Fred 'n me. Sergeant Swan has it in for him, and Fred reckons he won't make the cut. The final drill's tomorrow, finishing with a parade. I was gonna yell out "thief" and run to a secret meeting spot near the White Sands schoolhouse. Then I would hand over the pocket book and handkerchief to Fred and he would bring it back to the Sergeant. I reasoned if Swan saw first hand what Fred can do, he might give him a chance –'

'Swan!' Davy barks. 'Take it from me, it's not pocketbooks that interests him, it's his _rule_ book. He must sleep with the thing.'

'That's what Fred says. If only there was a way for us to get our hands on that.'

Davy hoots. 'Now that sounds like a proper plan. I say we do it!'

Gilbert looks sidelong at Davy. Either he is falling over, or the world is.

'You reckon we should try to get hold of Sergeant Swan's rule book?'

'Hell, I'd do it just to see the look on Swan's mutton-shuntin' face. Why he'd flap about worse than you did –'

'I was not flapping.'

'Sure you were, that plan was flimsy at best. But this? Ohhh...'

Davy flicks his cigarette butt to the ground and rubs his hands together.

'We gotta do it. We gotta try. 'magine Swan's face? Then Fred marchin' back with the rule book in his hands. There's no way Swan could cut Fred after that. Think of it, Gil, you know it makes sense.'

Gilbert does think about it, for about a minute. A glorious story unravels in his head, the kind of thing Anne would write. There was Swan looking like a blackball; his shaken white face bisected by his thick black moustache. And Fred being carried on the shoulders of the crowd, the stolen rule book in his mitts. Davy is right, this plan is far superior, except for one thing: they cannot get that book without breaking some serious laws. Stealing? From the sergeant? There is no way Gilbert is going to agree to that.

'The theory's a good'un, Davy, but I think I'll stick with my plan. If I can't get hold of that pocketbook, I'll just have to use my own.'

Gilbert doesn't want to. Swan has met him before which means there is no way he can claim it back without being asked some sticky questions. But it was better than risking arrest.

'Suit yourself,' says Davy mildly.

He lurches to his feet and sets off in a meander down the middle of the street.

'I'll see you at the Midsummer dance?' Gilbert calls after him.

'The wha?' says Davy spinning round.

'In Avonlea. Tomorrow. I'll see you there, right?'

'Oh yeah,' Davy grins. 'You'll see me for sure.'

And so he does. Though Davy is not waltzing in the arms of Ruby Gillis. Early next morning Gilbert finds him bowling up the alley that connects the inn to the town square where the police parade is about to commence. He doesn't recognise him at first, Davy is wearing a thick sweater with a high rolled neck, the kind that sailors wear, and has a cap pulled low over his eyes.

'Gil – I'm glad I caught you – Quick, get in here!'

He pulls at Gilbert's arm and yanks him into a doorway. Instinctively Gilbert pulls back.

'I have to get to the parade, let go –'

'Not when you see this.'

He presses Gilbert further into the doorway then pulls out a parcel wrapped in a bit of cloth. Slowly he unwraps it, his grin growing as he does so. The size looks familiar, and the flash of red confirms Gilbert's suspicions.

'You didn't –'

'Sure I did, it was easy. Here take it,' says Davy shoving the rule book into Gilbert's hands.

'Wait, I can't take this!'

'Well _I_ can't. These duds belong to a shipmate of mine and he's setting sail in half an hour. Do what you want with it, throw it away, hide it. But if I was you I'd wait for Fred.'

Davy doesn't wait, however, he shoves the book in Gilbert's hands and dashes away without looking back. Gilbert is determined to follow him, until he sees two men in recruit caps and armbands peer into the alley. He presses himself up hard against the door. Should he shove the book down his trousers, find some place to hide it? Before he can decide he hears the men's heavy boots clatter up another street.

It strikes Gilbert that it would be smarter to head toward the scene of the crime than try and get away, and stuffing the book down his shirt he continues toward the square. There is no point pretending he has been robbed when an actual robbery has taken place. He has to find a way to talk to Fred, and shoulders his way to the front of the crowd till he has a good view. There are ten men up for recruitment this year, but only two of them are standing to attention. Their chins are high and their faces are beaming. But the proudest by far is Frederic Wright.

Not until the parade is over is he able to explain what happened. When Swan discovered his book was missing the eight other recruits broke ranks and fled into the streets on the hunt for it. It was Fred's decision to remain in formation and that caused Swan to reconsider his opinion of candidate Wright. Rule books? He had a shelf full of them. But a lad with a sense of duty, who was looking to serve the force, not himself, they were rare as hen's teeth and deserved a place with the Island's best.

Gilbert thought it more likely that the Sergeant had not liked being shown up by the fact that after a month of drills he had been unable to control eighty percent of his class. He wouldn't dream of saying this to Fred however, whose chest out-puffed a pigeon, as he lovingly clutched his new cap bearing his number and rank. He will also be issued with a matching suit in black merino, sturdy new boots, a truncheon, a beat book, and a clacker. The boy marvels at the spoils he is about to receive, as well as four days off a month, free dinners and a _pension_.

'You'll never guess what that last one is?' he says to Gilbert, his brown eyes wide. 'It's the money they pay you when you _stop_ workin'. Imagine that? Gettin' money for gettin' old!'

Fred exhales deeply and gives his friend a smile.

'I was so ready to give up yesterday, lookin' for any reason to quit. After Dora's weddin' I…' and he rubs his hand over his mouth, unsure how to put the rest into words.

'You didn't give up,' Gilbert tells him, squeezing Fred's shoulder. 'That's all that matters. You showed 'em all. _You_ did it. Remember this day, Tourt.'

The memory of Fred's joyful expression stays with Gilbert during the journey back to Bright River. Despite the hangover his limbs feel light and his heart feels lucky. Could it be Anne's doing, was her blood really flowing through his veins? People said she had a knack for turning disasters around; his mother likes to say she is magic. Well whatever the cause, his luck doesn't look like it is about to run out anytime soon. As he steps out onto the platform he passes Mr Barry, who is collecting his wife from her shopping excursion to Charlottetown.

George Barry shifts the parcels aside and offers a place to young Blythe. Ebba smiles at him graciously.

'How's the child?' she says to Gilbert.

'May? Oh she's a sweet wee thing.'

'Who's she take after,' Ebba presses, 'in your opinion, I mean?'

It's impossible to answer. Babies only look like other babies as far as Gilbert is concerned.

'I suppose she has Miss Mawsey's colouring,' he muses, 'blue eyes, fair hair – '

' _I_ never met her,' says Ebba, as though it would have been a great fault on her part if she had. 'What she did to your poor mother.'

She gives Gilbert an accusing look, what she wants to say is: where were _you_ when your mother was being attacked?

Gilbert can't help wonder how it is that someone as sweet as Diana can have a mother who is the exact opposite. Not that Mrs Barry is as bad as Mrs Pye, or Mrs Harmon Andrews, but she could definitely stand being brought down a peg or two.

'It's true our family owes a lot to Fred. The whole village does, wouldn't you say?'

George Barry shoots Gilbert a look now; if the boy is going to carry on like that he can get off the buggy and walk.

Gilbert continues on, blithely.

'I've just seen Fred, as a matter of fact, today at White Sands. You might have heard he was training to join the police?'

Mrs Barry pretends not to hear, and fusses over the string ties on her brown paper packages. Her husband hurries his mare along.

'Have you ever attended selection day, Mrs Barry?' Gilbert asks, 'it's a very grand affair. The entire town turns out to watch the final drill, which ends with a parade. Of course Fred was out front, leading the sergeant's horse –'

'He got _in?_ ' Ebba erupts.

'Topped his class. Well, there was another fellow that made a good showing. But yes, Fred is a White Sands constable now, though Mackerson says someone with as much talent as him is sure to get a posting in the capital soon.'

'Charlottetown?' the Barrys chime in.

'Oh no. Ottawa.'

It wasn't exactly what Mackerson said, but it is close enough, and it certainly has the desired effect. Both Barry mouths are now hanging open.

'Never thought the boy would leave Yellow Birches, let alone the Island,' says George, almost to himself.

'Well it's all turned out for the best then, hasn't it?' Ebba snaps.

By the sound of her tone Gilbert is fairly sure those last words weren't addressed to him. He might be mistaken, but he could swear Diana's parents look the tiniest bit deflated. It shouldn't cheer him but it does. When Gilbert leaps from the buggy and dashes into his house he feels as though his feet barely touch the ground.

He finds his mother taking an afternoon nap, little May curled up beside her. His father would already be at the hall, helping to set up the dance. He is going to play his fiddle, and Clarissa Clay her banjo, and thinking of her he bolts the door to the cottage and changes into his grey flannel suit.

He is just about to put on his jacket when he hears a tap on the window. His mother is there, May on her hip, who gurgles at Gilbert when he opens the door.

'Oh good, you're back. Would you do me a favour, and fetch my spyglass? I left it on the cottage roof after showing it to Laurie Wright last evening. I only now remembered that I left it up there, and I have to change May and then pop along to Luella's. She's got too fat for her poplin and wants to borrow my butterfly shawl – goodness but you look handsome.'

'I'll do,' her son says grimacing, as his mother attempts to straighten his tie.

'Anne Shirley is a lucky girl.'

If Ro had been talking to her daughter she might have said more, but with her son all she dares do is raise her brows and give him a knowing grin.

Gilbert clambers up the ladder bolted to the side of the house, taking care not to mark his trousers. The pretty brass spyglass is nestled in its box in the middle of the roof and he brings it to his eye and scans the village. From here he can see the treetops of the Birch path and soon after a figure strolls out of it, a lanky fellow in a scarlet jacket and a jaunty pillbox hat. Davy, thinks Gilbert, on his way to collect Ruby and walk her to the dance. He is about to lower the spyglass when he notices Davy stop and hold out his hand for a girl behind him, in a buttery gown, and loose red hair; her slender arms full of flowers.

Why is Anne walking with Davy, why are they heading this way? And why is he holding her hand like that and swinging it back and forth? Perhaps she is on an errand, and delivering something to the Gillis' too? But no, the two of them keep walking up Newbridge Road. In another moment they enter the orchard.

Davy reaches up and shakes a branch, raining pink blossom on them both. Anne watches and smiles. Then she beckons him through the juniper hedge and they stand outside the cottage.

'The door's unlocked,' Anne says, trying it. 'We're in luck. I won't be a moment.'

Gilbert quickly returns the spyglass to it box, and is about to make himself known, when Davy pulls Anne back to the hedge.

'I lied to you… about my headache,' he says, and swallows hard.

'What is it, Davy, are you sure?' Anne murmurs. 'You don't look well to me.'

Davy takes the flowers from her and lays them on the grass.

Anne goes still, except her hair, her living red hair, which shimmers and ripples down her back. A tendril floats in front of her face and Davy brushes it away.

'That was just an excuse to be alone with you,' he says, huskily. 'Anne, there's somethin' you need to know.'

The heart in Gilbert's chest starts thumping so loud he expects the two of them to look up at him any second, and he shifts away from the edge of the roof and moves towards the ladder. The oak tree obscures the top of it and he freezes on the first step as he hears Davy explain.

'I can't marry Ruby. It's not right, it's not fair. Anne, what am I goin' to do?'

…

 _* a sly grogger sells sly grog ie: illicit booze_

 _* a clacker is a wooden instrument used by the police in the 19_ _th_ _century to signal for aid, like a whistle. A beat book is used to_ _record the streets each policeman patrols – in other words, his beat._


	18. Chapter 18

_**Chapter eighteen**_

'What do you mean you can't marry Ruby?' Anne says. She uses the same voice with Laurie, patient and teacher-like. 'Have you made a promise to her?'

Davy won't answer and attempts to pull Anne away. He doesn't like this creepy little cottage – and besides a Blythe might turn up at any moment.

Anne resists and steps under the oak tree's boughs. She looks over her shoulder and pauses briefly, then gives a faint shake of her head. Gilbert retreats further up the roof; Anne knows he is here, he is sure of it, and he sits in silence and waits.

'I'm not taking another step until you answer me.'

Davy makes a woebegone sigh.

'The entire Gillis clan is expectin' me to ask her. At the midsummer dance tonight.'

'Forget the Gillis',' Anne entreats, 'think of Ruby, she loves you –'

'And I'm sure I love her. But that doesn't mean I'm ready to be a husband. The Navy means everything to me, I've been dreamin' about it since I was a boy. I want to roam the world; I want to be free. I thought you would understand that.'

'I'm trying to understand,' Anne says.

'But you don't have to try, we're the same, don't you see?'

He removes his pillbox hat and tucks it under his arm, his other arm reaching for her.

'I've never known anyone to go after their dreams like you do. You don't care for these people's opinions; the first chance you got you left Avonlea and staked your place in the world. Imagine tryin' to do such a thing with a wife and child at home? It's not fair to Ruby and it's not fair to me. I got a right to follow my dreams, like you.'

'But Ruby knows you're a sailor, she knows the life she's marrying into.'

'She likes the idea of marryin' a hero but she has no idea what it takes to be such a man. When that storm hit Tignish I had no thought for myself, all I cared about was gettin' those men to shore. I could have died – you know the dangers I put myself in. I can't help it, Anne, it's who I am… and you know it's who you are too.'

Anne's eyes narrow and she backs away.

'That's not who I am at all –'

Davy isn't listening, or if he is he doesn't believe her – and is not ready to stop talking about himself, just yet.

'Can you picture me at Prayer Meetin', helpin' to raise some neighbour's barn, frettin' over grubs and footrot? It wouldn't be long till I started makin' excuses to stay away. Sure Ruby might comply at first, but pretty soon the naggin' would start. She'll expect me to take safer routes, put in requests for long shore leave. She's a lovely lass, don't get me wrong, but it's just not worth the sacrifice.'

'If you loved her it wouldn't feel like a sacrifice,' Anne says coolly.

Gilbert knows that tone. She had said something similar when he asked her to come to Redmond when Marilla was very ill. Her voice had been resolute and utterly unyielding, and he saw then he had a crossed a line and scrambled to get back by making a joke. When Anne gave into laughter Gilbert could have cried with relief. He had come to close to losing her in that moment, and he wonders if Davy realises how close he is too.

Davy Rossi has no idea the line in even there, and blunders over it with such rash disregard Gilbert winces.

'I can't believe I'm hearing this, Anne! You carry on with Gil and never think of marryin', why is that all right for you and not for me?'

Anne's neck lengthens, her voice cold and unforgiving as ice.

'Why did you bring me here, tonight?'

'I thought maybe you could talk to Ruby,' he says eagerly. 'Explain how you worked things out with Gil.'

'Worked things out?' Anne utters in disgust. 'It's not like that at all.'

'Sure it is. But let's say he gets round to makin' an honest woman of you, are you tellin' me you'd give up your writin' dreams for him?'

'Gilbert doesn't limit my dreams, he inspires them!'

Anne's voice is almost ragged and she breathes in deep in an effort to reclaim a sense of calm. Davy does not know her at all, but it is useless to argue. He cannot hear what she has to say, only how it affects him.

'I don't wish to discuss this any further. Gilbert Blythe speaks for himself. And I think I should speak to Ruby, she needs this broken to her gently and I don't trust you to do it.'

'No – no!' Davy urges, 'don't do that. I just needed to talk things out - the way we always do.'

He gives her his most heart-breaking smile, his blue eyes searching and sorrowful.

'You're the only person who understands me, Anne. We changed each other's lives, you and I. We could never have followed our dreams without each other… Sometimes I wish –'

'That's enough. If you mean to talk to Ruby then you'd better leave now. I arranged to stay at her house tonight, so if you don't come clean then believe me, I will. If she takes the news badly, you are to come straight back, otherwise I expect to see you at the dance.'

So much for his heart-breaking smile – Anne probably didn't have one to break. He slips his hat on with a slick practiced motion and tucks the strap under his chin.

'Hell, you sound like Marilla sometimes.'

'It's too late for flattery, please go.'

'Where are you off to?'

'I'm climbing this roof. I can see the Gillis house from here and can make sure you go to Ruby.'

'Don't worry, I'm goin', I'm goin'.'

Davy shuffles off and Anne's head appears above the roof line. Though she locks eyes with Gilbert immediately, her face shows complete surprise. She gives a brief glance back to Davy then quickly steps onto the roof.

'What are you – ?'

'You didn't know I was up here? I saw you look up and shake your head.'

Gilbert says this quickly as though he wants the conversation over with. And he does. Chief on his mind is catching up with Davy Rossi, and this time he will not be bested.

Anne leans even closer to him and grabs him hard by the chin.

'Look at me, Gilbert. Don't do it, I beg you, leave him be.'

'You can't be serious, after what he said to you, I could kill him –'

'And if you did, what then? _Please_ ,' and she takes his face between her hands, 'I have never begged, but I'm begging you now.'

This gets Gilbert's attention. It's like he is seeing her for the first time since she appeared up here. Her face is pale and her eyes are dark… with fear, is there really fear in Anne Shirley's eyes? Seeing it feels as wrong as black in a rainbow. He slumps back slowly and shakes his head.

'I thought you knew I was up here.'

He says this because he doesn't know what else to say, and he gives Anne's answer the merest attention. Something about Laurie, the coming eclipse… what does it matter when Davy Rossi is getting away and he is letting him go? When she asks if he still wants to go to the dance she has to ask him twice, the second time he responds with an empty laugh.

'You think I could go there now, pretend nothing happened?'

The thought of Davy smirking in his red jacket, thinking he and Gilbert were great chums. Every word he said about Ruby was a lie… And the way he touched Anne's face, hinted that he wished for more. Gilbert has never hated anyone before, but he is sorely tempted to give into such a feeling now.

He doesn't notice Anne move away until she steps onto the ladder.

'Where are you going? Anne wait!'

'I have to go – I have to see if Ruby is all right. I should have made sure Davy went to her door, but I was more worried for you.'

'For me?'

'I'm sorry you heard those spiteful things, I'm sorry for all of it. You fought over me, didn't you? Oh Gilbert, I'm so sorry…'

Her body trembles as she clutches the ladder. Gilbert tries to get to her, but he is too late, Anne tumbles to the ground. It is only a short fall, ten or twelve feet, but her ankle has already been broken once and it doesn't take the landing well.

He leaps after her, splitting his good trousers as he braces for impact. When the dust clears he finds Anne with her skirts round her hips, and a crooked, almost wild smile stretched across her face.

'We make a fine pair,' she mutters, rubbing her ankle. 'I don't suppose either of us are dancing now.'

'Your foot, is it bad?' says Gilbert.

His hands go to her slipper; Anne nudges him away.

'Will you stop doctoring me!'

'I can't help it, I have to fix things – you know that.'

Ignoring her protests Gilbert lifts Anne up in his arms and carries her into the cottage and onto his narrow bed. He loosens his hold but Anne won't let go, and clings to him as though he might be taken from her at any moment.

'Anne, we have to examine your foot, it might be broken.'

'It's not, I know it's not, don't worry about my foot right now. Sit with me, please, and tell me about last Christmas. I was right, wasn't I? I was right about Davy?'

Gilbert nods mutely and sits on the edge of the bed. He barely feels it, he can't feel anything but the surge of anger building up inside him.

'Is that why you wanted to court, out in the open? So that Davy couldn't say such things about –'

Anne does not finish what she wants to say because Gilbert leaps from the bed. He begins pacing the floor, stunned with a growing realisation that this is something that cannot be fixed. Fixing this means fixing Rossi and there was no way Gilbert can risk doing that. Nor can he reason himself out of the knowledge that he let Davy walk away scot-free. He cannot explain their fight away, and he can't talk his way out of it. He cannot lie to Anne. But then he has been lying, about the fight, about courting, about all of it.

'I don't want to court you!' he erupts, 'I want to marry you! _Now_! Right this second. I want to be your husband; I dearly want you to be my wife. I don't want to be parted, I don't want to hide, I don't want to perform in some fool test and I don't want you to think I would ever _ever_ throw you away! I love you the way a man loves his wife. You are my wife; have been the moment we made our oath. All this playing around, pretending, I can't do it anymore… I won't. It's beneath me, and it's surely beneath you. I love you Anne, I love you…'

His voice breaks, and he falls to his knees. Some of this he knew he was going to say, but the rest – it had come out of nowhere. No, not nowhere, from the place inside him the light didn't touch. He barely admitted it to himself; that in his heart he had married her that night in their little house of snow. He hadn't meant to, nor was he sure Anne felt the same. Sometimes he suspected not, other times he felt so certain. But he did not know, and he would not say because of the mess it would make. Such a declaration was illogical, nonsensical. He has six more years to get through. Yet here he is on his knees with a gaping hole in his trousers and his heart split wide.

'I can't get to you,' Anne says at last, her voice small and sounding very far away. 'Will you please come to me?'

Gilbert moves slowly, heavy with growing embarrassment. He had hoped Anne might have at least declared her love for him. He feels worse when he finds her crying. Her nose is red and patches of pillow are damp; then she reaches for him and lets herself go, releasing thick sobs into his shoulder. After some minutes he thinks he can make out a word or two. _Above you?_ Is that what she is saying. He twists his neck and looks up and her lips graze over his ear.

'I love you... I love you...' she whispers.

Gilbert starts. 'You do?'

'You know I do,' she says hoarsely. 'How many times have I tried to show you? But you keep pulling away ever since this courting talk began. I have never wanted to perform and I certainly don't want to pretend, not to you, or Marilla, or anyone. I want to be loved the way a husband loves his wife, I want to be loved by you, Gilb –'

Her words are stopped by a euphoric kiss. But just a short one. Anne breaks away to blow her nose and then Gilbert cannot resist examining her foot. A bruise is blooming along the instep and one toe is going blue. But she moves it just fine, like the rest of her body, which she wraps around his with growing fervour.

'Please Gilbert,' she murmurs, 'don't let me go.'

'Anne, I promise you, I'm not going anywhere.'


	19. Chapter 19

_**Chapter nineteen**_

'Can we stop for a moment?'

Anne this time. Gilbert's head rises from the plush place on her belly, and he gives her a lazy smile.

'So long as it's just a moment,' he says.

It's supposed to be a joke, but in truth he is very serious. He hasn't been alone with Anne for this many minutes since February, and while he promised he wouldn't go anywhere he knows Anne can't make the same promise. She'll have to leave here sooner or later. Oh let it be much, much later…

'Did you know you come over all dreamy sometimes?' Anne continues, returning his smile.

'People have pointed it out, yes. I see birds too, at the unlikeliest of times and sometimes I feel plain lucky. I blame you,' he tells her, tapping his finger on her nose, 'I think some piece of you really did get inside me.'

'And did you really feel married to me ever since?'

The glib response Anne expects doesn't come. In fact a whole minute passes before Gilbert can say a word. But he isn't worried. If anyone understands silence, it's Anne.

'All I know,' he says at last, 'is that everything a husband is supposed to feel for his wife, I feel for you. I want to provide for you and protect you and worship you with my body…'

As he speaks, his lips travel over her ribs, then he runs his tongue along the tender crease where chest becomes breast.

Anne hands go to his head and she presses him into her.

'I want that for you, too.'

Her voice is thick and for one stinging moment Gilbert thinks she might cry again. His lips make a slow trail up the pearlescent skin between her breasts to the hollow between her collarbones. Usually when he touches her there she arches her back with pleasure.

Gilbert peers up and frowns.

'You _are_ crying. Why love, why, are you sad? Is it Davy –'

At the sound of his name Anne stiffens, and she pulls her chemise over herself.

'We're not the same, Gilbert. No matter what he says… But we very nearly could have been...'

Her voice fades and she sits up with a jerk, hugging one knee to her chest.

'The way he casts himself as the hero of some grand tragedy – oh Gilbert I could have so easily turned into a girl like that. I wanted to help him; I really tried. The talks we had, the letters – I _knew_ I was on dangerous ground and kept telling myself that he was my brother; that he was testing his feelings out on me because he was afraid of falling for Ruby… If only he would be honest with her – but he _won't_ , I know he won't. The moment Davy knows he's _got_ to do something he does the very opposite, even if it ends up hurting him. He's too in love with his tragic self.'

'And a little in love with you.'

'Only because he can't have me. He told me long ago the only girl worth having is the one he cannot win.'

Gilbert flinches. He had said something similar last Christmas; it twists like a knife to think he and Davy are in any way the same.

'When we made our oath… I didn't mean… I just wanted…'

Anne lifts her face, eyes bright and fearless.

'I remember what you wanted; for us to never be parted. I want that too. You don't know how I want that, Gilbert – uh!'

She grimaces as her knee jumps beneath the blanket. Gilbert rises smartly and buttons up his shirt.

'I'm getting you another pillow, you need to raise your foot.'

'What I need to do is see Ruby.'

'No. You don't. The Gillis sisters are more than capable of dealing with Rossi. I won't go further than the porch, there's a pillow on the daybed – though it might have a bit of cat hair on it.'

Anne chuckles, and the knot in Gilbert's gut slowly unravels. So long as he can still make her laugh everything else has a chance to work out. He bends over and kisses the top of her head.

'Ginger hair too, you should like that.'

'Blythe go!'

'I am going.'

'Oh and Gilbert?'

'Yes?'

'Be sure to come straight back.'

He grins to himself as he runs through the orchard, but it has vanished by the time he gets to the back door. It strikes him with such suddenness his feet forget how to climb the back steps. The girl who vowed she would never court, who would rather be free than safe; what happened to her?

He had been so caught up with Fred and his work, so desperate to prove his worth to Green Gables, Gilbert hadn't seen – he did not want to – that the Anne that came back in April was not quite the same girl he saw in Kingsport. She was easier, sweeter, much less combative. He had put this down to her return to Avonlea, when really this made no sense. Was it the Echo, Hamilton, Marilla, Davy, the letters from Mrs Tom…

He only just makes it inside before the front door opens. The pillow is in the crook of his elbow. When he hears who his visitors are it is almost squeezed in two.

'See,' says Davy glancing warily round the door. 'No one here, Rosebud.'

Ruby pouts. 'Oh but Mrs Blythe said he was here, I'll just take a quick peep – we have to tell our neighbours, oh I want to tell the whole world!'

She trips down the hall, her golden hair shining from the evening light that pours through the open door.

'Gilbert Blythe, there you are! Davy and I have the most marvellous news!'

'So you are here,' says Davy. He leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms. 'What are you lurking about for? You should be on the arm of my sister, taking her to the dance.'

'Now Gilbert,' says Ruby, in what she considers her best wifely fashion, 'I know your Pa promised to play _your_ choice for the first dance, but seeing as we have some news – ' and she claps her hands excitedly, 'Mrs Blythe said you wouldn't mind if he played _my_ choice instead. She's going there now, taking little May in my old perambulator. I'm only loaning it to her of course. You never know, I might need it sooner than you think!'

Her long lashed eyes flash saucily, then slope into a pretty frown.

'But why are you carrying a pillow – you'll flatten all the feathers if you hold it like that.'

'It's for Anne,' Gilbert manages to say. 'She fell from the cottage roof and hurt her foot.'

'The cottage – what cottage?'

Gilbert almost rolls his eyes.

'It's all right Ruby, everyone in Avonlea knows about the stone cottage.'

'What was she doing on the roof! Not that I'm at all surprised. Though really, such larks at eighteen. Silly ol' Anne – oh! We can tell her too, can't we Davy? We _must_ tell Anne, she's been wanting this for _so_ long.'

The wide smile Davy wears cracks; he clears his throat and rubs the toe of his boot against the back of his leg.

'We wouldn't want to disturb her, not if she's unwell –'

'Oh don't worry about Anne, she's is nigh on unbreakable. Will you take us to her, Gil? Of course, you must knock first and give her time to tidy herself. I just hate being caught with my hair all mussy and my cheeks unpinched.'

'I'll be doin' the pinchin' from now on – and not just these ones,' Davy says, caressing Ruby's face.

Darling spots of pink appear on her ivory skin and she looks at Gilbert, coyly.

'I'm sure I don't know what he means.'

'Don't mind him,' says Davy. 'Gil's a man of the world. You know the Gillis sisters quite well, I hear?'

'A little too well I should say,' Ruby chimes in, making another of her pretty frowns. 'Oh! We must hurry, I want to be there for the very first dance. Folks are coming from as far away as Grafton and White Sands! Do show us to the cottage, Gilbert, I wouldn't have a clue where it is.'

Between Gilbert racing ahead and Davy lagging behind Anne is given plenty of warning – and a chance to refasten the thirty small buttons down the front of her tea gown. Gilbert folds the blankets back and helps her sit up in bed, and by the time the happy couple arrive she looks like a hapless invalid. The only things to give her away are her eyes, which are stretched wide with the surprise of it all. There she is, ready and waiting for Gilbert to return to her, and in bowls Ruby and Davy, fizzing with excitement.

'Oh Anne, you poor thing, you'll never guess what! But of course you will. Don't I wish I had a ring to show you, but Davy knows a diamond merchant in Charlottetown and he wants me to choose my own. So much nicer than having to wear your mother in law's cast offs. But isn't it thrilling! I'm getting married! He asked me, and I said yes and everyone bustled into the garden, for that's where we were, right by my favourite red rose, and he picked the choicest bloom and fell down on one knee and I thought I would faint, then I was worried my face had gone pasty, then I cried with happiness, and then I was worried poor Davy would think I was refusing him and then –'

'And then I told her to stop her pretty blubbing and kiss me,' Davy finishes.

'So I did. Right in our garden, when I knew Mama and Papa were spying on us. Oh but I didn't care. It was the most marvellous kiss. Kisses are so much sweeter when you are engaged. Not that we mean to be engaged for long. I told you I knew what I was doing when I gave up the school at Newbridge. Why do you think Davy took Soren's house? It'll be my house soon, but only for the summer. Davy wants me to live in Charlottetown with the other Naval wives. I like the sound of that, don't you? Oh, but Anne, there's something I want to ask you – Darling? Gilbert? Would you fellows step outside and allow me a private moment with my dear ol' chum?'

'Of course, Rosebud. But don't be long.'

Davy tries to catch Anne's eye, but hers are trained on Gilbert who is still holding the pillow. When they step outside it is all he can do not to sock Davy over the head with it.

'You're very quiet,' Davy notes. 'Not regretting your choice, I hope. You know the old adage: you don't know what you've got till it's gone.'

'And when do you expect to be gone?'

'Oh quite soon. Sooner than Ruby realises, but I won't spoil her fancies just yet. She's already talking about new drapes for the parlour and painted shutters and the like. You know the more I think of it the more I like the idea of having a loveable wife to come home to. Remember when you tried to teach me how to cook and clean for myself?'

'You manage to take care of your uniform very well.'

'Well, I've always been very partial to red.'

The pillow is fairly mangled now, when Ruby appears she is horrified.

'Gilbert Blythe,' she chides, 'give me that poor pillow and let me plump it up. Here, see, that's better. Goodness, you look more unwell than Anne does. Perhaps you should sit with her a spell. I'll tell your mother not to expect you. Well goodbye Anne, and thank you,' she calls through the doorway. 'Goodbye now! Goodbye! Goodbye!'

Gilbert swiftly closes the door and slides the bolt shut. He leans against it for a moment and slowly closes his eyes.

'Thank you,' Anne says, unexpectedly.

Gilbert's eyes fly open.

'For what?'

'I know what it took, just now, for you to let Davy be.'

'I did it for you. And for Ruby. She asked you to be her maid of honour, I suppose.'

'Oh no. It was far less innocent than that. She wanted to know if she could tell her mother she was staying at Green Gables instead. She's expecting to stay out rather late tonight.'

'In her new house, no doubt.'

'Which means Mrs Gillis won't miss me when I don't stay over at her place.'

Gilbert approaches the bed and cups Anne's face.

'Where will you be staying tonight?'

Anne brings his thumb to her lips and kisses it gently. A long hot breath shoots from her nose, and her chest fills with another.

Is she going to say what he thinks she will say? His heart beats so loud he's afraid he won't hear her answer.

Hers is beating fiercely too, he can feel it against his forearm. Then she smiles at him with her wide grey eyes and says:

'Here, my love. With you.'


	20. Chapter 20

_**Chapter twenty**_

'Are you comfortable?'

Anne nods.

'Are you sure, do you think your foot –'

'Blythe, I am immensely comfortable in your extremely narrow and rather sagging bed.'

'It doesn't usually sag. I guess it's not used to having two people in it.'

'Never?'

'Nope. Never… are you sure you're comfortable, I could fetch another pillow?'

As he speaks Anne wriggles closer and kisses his closely shaved cheek.

'If you ask me if I'm sure one more time I will tie you to the bed to keep you here. I am sure. I was sure the day we first kissed, surer in our snowcave, certain in Kingsport and now, Gilbert, _now,_ there is nothing in the world I want to do more than give myself to you, completely,' and she kisses his nose, 'utterly', and her lips brush his brow, 'and forever,' and she presses her head against his.

Gilbert swallows hard, trying to get his head back into the here and now, when all he wants to do is ask Anne if she is sure again. He already has his answer to that, complete with threat. In his heart he knows he is the one who is unsure. It feels all wrong; with her foot (don't mention her foot), and Ruby and Davy bursting in (don't think about how much you want to slug his smug face), and relying on a ruse to ensure their privacy. But then he had been ready to spend the night with her in their tiny frozen snowcave. It might just as easily happened in her squalid Kingsport hotel room. The cottage is far more suitable, surely. How many nights has he lain here imagining what it would be like to make love to her? And when it was over the ache was even bigger, and the longing, the frustration, the thought of six more years… He had wanted to bring her here on Christmas night, and now she is here and so is his bed, and there will be no interruptions till the morning. The cottage completes the circle; it is simple geometry.

'Gilbert?'

'Hmm?'

'Will you get out of your head and come to bed?'

'Yes… sorry, I…'

He slips down his suspenders, unbuttons his shirt and tosses it on the desk. He retrieves it soon after; there are some foxglove samples stacked there, and his notes, his mortar, his pestle… He clears his throat and folds his shirt over a chair, then sits down again to remove his shoes and socks, his trousers, his underwear… Should they come off too, is it assuming too much? Just because Anne says she is staying, doesn't mean they will go all the way. He will leave them on, for now at least. It's then he notices Anne's bloomers flying across the room and landing by the trapdoor. The trapdoor. Maybe he should move a piece of heavy furniture over it?

'What are you doing?' Anne asks, as she watches him shift the bookcase over the door cut into the floor.

'Nothing. It's done. Now…'

He turns and allows himself a look the luminous girl in his bed; her bare shoulders, her loose red hair spilling all over his pillow.

This is really happening. This is really happening right now. She is here. He is here. Geometry, geometry, geometry…

He tucks in beside her, and wriggles out of his underpants. Feeling huge and ungainly, while she is suddenly so fragile.

'Kiss me, kiss me now before I burst,' she says eagerly.

And he does and it is strange, and then not so strange. He feels himself responding, sweet heat coursing through his limbs. His body knows what to do, even if he doesn't. He can love her, he can do this – how did Anne put it? Completely. Utterly. And forever. Forever? That's a long time; even when it is just himself, he never lasts more than five minutes.

It's at this moment that Anne brushes her hand over him and he sucks in an audible breath.

'I didn't hurt you, did I?'

'It's nice – it's good. I just wasn't expecting it yet.'

'Oh this is all wrong,' Anne sighs.

She shifts awkwardly to the side of the bed. Gilbert exhales; the relief he feels even stronger than the hot flood that filled him earlier. He is about to open his mouth and agree when Anne continues.

'Perhaps you should lie on top of me, then we'll both have room to move.'

'On top of you, of course.'

It takes a bit of preparation, rearranging her pillow, setting the blankets straight. A few shy smiles are exchanged, hearts hammering even louder, but the reward for all those manoeuvres is a special kind of bliss. Anne's thighs are soft and full and lying between them has always been Gilbert's favourite thing in all the world. He would grind against her urgently, wishing more than anything that the last remnants of clothing could finally be removed. And now they are and he can feel a soft red triangle of curls brush against his belly and he moves up to kiss her again, on her eyelids, just the way she likes it when…

'Ohh!'

When it isn't encased in his underpants it has a mind of its own and without even planning to, the tip of him has pushed inside her as he slid up her body.

'Sorry, I didn't mean –'

'No, please. I want you to. I've dreamed of this moment. I just thought, that is you usually… well I thought you would touch me there first. So I could get used to you.'

A thought occurs to Gilbert now; something that lurks in the same hidden part of himself. Something that even with all they have done he has never mentioned to her before.

'Can I – that is… I have always wanted to kiss you there.'

'Where?'

He brings one hand down under the blankets and touches her gently between her legs.

Now Anne is the one who looks unsure. She had bathed for the dance, but what if she isn't fresh as she hopes? What would he say, what will she say; it might ruin everything?

Gilbert brings his hand up again and lays it between her breasts.

'I adore you,' he tells her, hazel eyes glinting.

'I know you do,' Anne smiles, and shyly nods her head.

Gilbert is not going through the motions now. He wants to do this so much he can feel himself straining with anticipation. It's as though the further he can keep himself from her the more in control he feels. He wriggles down under the bedclothes, his bare feet sticking out the end. The air is close and thick with the smell of musk and fresh sweat. The sweat will be his, he is so nervous and excited; the musk, pure Anne, and he breathes her in, as he nuzzles his nose against her. There is more hair here than he expected, but he quickly learns how to work his way around that. And there are delicate, secret, tucks and folds, that open at his touch.

He had heard it called a rose before and placing his lips here he understands why. He runs his tongue all over her, swept up with the illicit pleasure; unaware of the bone-deep moans he is sending into her body. For a moment he almost forgets Anne is there, squirming and sighing above the blankets, till she pulls hard at the curls on his head and tries to yank him up.

'I can't stand it anymore! I'll go mad, do you want me to go mad?'

Reluctantly he leaves the darkness and his tousled head appears, pink faced and smiling.

'Do you like it?'

'Yes… and no. It's a very strange feeling being kissed like that, yet feeling lonely at the same time. I want you up here with me, I want to see you when you touch me.'

'Like this,' he says, licking her neck, his mouth musky and sweet.

Anne bites her lip and feels about under the blankets, and encircling him, firmly. He thinks maybe they will end up doing what they always do. Her touch is comforting and familiar; they know how to do this and they know how it will end. But being inside her, thrusting his thick, firm, angular self into her silken, lithe, ethereal body – it isn't going to be as easy as he supposed.

The weight he felt in Kingsport bears down hard on him now, and he must take it and still find the strength to hover above her; be as feather-soft and gradual as a gently rising tide. It will only require absolute concentration, and it's already wandering, as Anne grips him tighter and slowly lifts her hips.

Dear God, she is miraculous… don't let me hurt her, don't ever let me let her down…

She lifts her hips again; just a little, but enough to tell him she is ready to begin.

'I know you're nervous. I'm nervous too. We can stop if you want, we really can, but I don't want to. I want to make love to you. Do you want that too?'

He doesn't swallow hard this time; he gulps.

'This isn't the way I imagined it would be.'

A giggle builds in Anne's throat and for a terrible moment she thinks she might laugh. But she doesn't, she kisses his full brown lips and says:

'What did you imagine?'

'That we'd be married for one –'

'We are in our hearts.'

'That we would be in the house I had made for you –'

'This cottage is as much yours as anyone's.'

'And we would be so overcome by the moment that it would just… happen.'

'It is happening.'

'Anne... I don't know the best way to go about this. I know you think I do –'

'Do you know what to do when you get close?'

Gilbert nods.

'So the rest we'll just learn as we go. I can help you,' and she guides him between her thighs. 'Here, like you did before, only slower.'

Gilbert nods again, and nudges up against her. She feels softer and more swollen than she had been earlier, and he glides in quicker than he means to. And it feels, but don't think about how it feels (like a mouth, only hotter, deeper, tighter.) His arms burn from holding his body just above hers, and he tries to focus on this; the buzzing in his wrists, the strange way his toes bend back, because another sensation is taking over now, growing stronger and stronger with each sinking inch.

Please, he begs himself, please, please, please, _please_ stay in control.

Anne lets out a long hot breath.

'Ohhh keep going, mmm, just like that…' then, ' _stop!_ '

Gilbert freezes.

'It's the angle,' Anne says, 'could you shift a little lower?'

The angle. Geometry. Of course. He is good at that. So why can't he move? A moment later Anne does. She shifts around under him, lifting her hips (oh please don't do that) and a smile spreads over her sweet flushed face.

'Oh it's much better now… it's lovely…'

She closes her eyes, and wraps her arms around him, pulling him in for a soft deep kiss.

Her arms aren't the only things doing the pulling; Gilbert swears if he didn't have hips Anne would take in all of him. It's like he found a current within her and is this close to being swept away. Strangely, kissing helps, as do her breasts, lips, neck, armpits, ear lobes, even her freckles. They act like anchors, keeping him tied to her shores as he gives her body his fullest, more dedicated attention. It should have occurred to him – would have if he'd been thinking straight – what his lovemaking is doing to her.

'Oh Gilbert,' she murmurs, 'I feel so beautiful…'

It's always been this way. It isn't his pleasure that sets him off; it's hers. And this time is no different. In fact it's more intense, more demanding, and so exquisite as her hands press into the small of his back guiding him further into the current. How is he supposed to hover above her if she presses his body into hers like that?

There is only so much weight a man can bear, his wrists give out and his chest collides with hers, as he goes deeper than he ever dared go. He will pull back (oh but not yet), he should pull back (but please not now). Then Anne wraps her legs around him and the weight is just too much.

'Don't stop,' she pants, squeezing her thighs about his hips and her eyes tight shut.

'I've got to – I'm sorry –'

Anne's eyes fly open as Gilbert jerks back and lets fly all over her belly. He falls on top of her with the strength of the release and groans briefly into her neck.

'I didn't mean – I didn't mean for that to happen yet…'

Anne tightens her arms around him and smiles against his cheek.

'You didn't mean to be wonderful?'

Gilbert sinks into the damp squashed pillow and offers her a crooked smile.

'I call that a fair attempt,' he answers huskily. 'Give me five minutes and I'll give you wonderful.'


	21. Chapter 21

_**Chapter twenty-one**_

Five minutes pass, then ten. The furthest Gilbert has been able to move is from the pillow to her shoulder. Such a lassitude is pulsing through him, sweet and easy as though his limbs have turned to sunbeams. It doesn't help that Anne is drawing circles over his shoulder and then up into his hair. It's damp and tousled and the curls seem to wrap themselves around her finger, which she tugs gently, sending tingles all through him.

'I feel different, don't you?'

'Mmm,' he mutters. 'I do.'

'Sort of wiser, more womanly. And you, I can still feel you too.'

'You can?' says Gilbert, brushing his lips over her neck.

She's so silken; everything is silken, her voice, her skin, the melting sensation that floods though his bones…

'Mmmm, yes. A sort of lovely ache, as though my body is already calling for you. I'm also sort of… sort of…'

Her sudden loss for words alerts him and he jerks his head up.

'I didn't hurt you did I?'

Anne purses her lips. Such an answer is doing little to allay Gilbert's fears. He had hurt her, he knew it, at the end when he fell upon her chest. He shifts his weight onto his elbow and tenderly strokes her face.

'I'll be gentler next time, I promise. Wonderful, I'll make it wonderful for you.'

'It isn't anything you did… well it is, but not in the way you mean. I'm just a little… a little…'

'A little what, Anne, please –'

'A little sticky. I think you got it in my hair.'

Gilbert falls onto her shoulder again.

'You had me worried. Let me find something – no!' and his hazel eyes widen. 'Let me bathe you.'

He leaps out of bed – it's true he does feel different, even his bare feet on the flagstone floor have a strange sort of spring in them – and throws on his grey flannel trousers. After some fumbling with his suspenders he hunts about for his boots.

Anne begins to laugh.

'What – what's so funny?'

'I can see your white behind peeping through your trousers.'

'You'll see even more in a minute, but first a hot bath for my wife.'

Gilbert dashes to the wash house where the shallow tub is stored, and brings it back, along with a bucket. Soon he has a fire burning and water simmering, gently.

All this time Anne has been lying there, a blissful smile on her face. Waiting for him to fetch what he needed, listening to him work the pump, watching him fix her a fragrant bouquet of herbs to scent the water.

She takes his hand when he offers it and rolls from the narrow bed, the bliss dissipating quickly when she bears weight on her foot.

'Ow!'

'Sit down,' Gilbert orders.

'Gilbert I am perfectly capable of making it three feet to the bath.'

'Sit,' he tells her, 'I'm carrying you there.'

Anne sits, smiling bemusedly, as he scoops her up and places her, with only one awkward wobble, into the tub.

He has a jug of hot water ready and he pours this over her hair, which he lathers gently and rinses clean. Then he takes a little cake of soap, rubbing it thoroughly over wet hands, before smoothing them all over her back.

'Gilbert, that feels marvellous. I never thought to do that before.'

'Do what?' he says, and shifts now, almost entirely preoccupied with running his soapy hands all over her front.

'Soap my hands rather than my body. Mrs Hammond always instructed me to never let my hands touch my skin when I washed. I suppose the habit stuck… mmm – oh! Hmm… I don't remember my breasts requiring quite so much attention – Gil, what are you doing?'

Grey flannel trousers fly through the air now.

'I can't help myself, I'm getting in.'

Anne laughs again.

'You'll never fit!'

'So I'll stand, I don't care.'

An idea comes to Anne this time, and she retrieves the cake of soap from its dish on the floor.

'Can I wash you?' she asks him, and before he can answer, slides her hands up his calves.

They don't remain there for long however, her hands have another destination in mind. She snakes up his thighs, and grips him firmly, the way she always does, which is why she is so surprised when his lets out a strange squeeze-box sound.

'Ah – eh – uh. Maybe gentler first.'

'Like this?' Anne asks him running her tongue over him.

'Anne, you can't!'

'But _you_ can?'

'That was different.'

It is also how Anne ends up needing to wash her hair again.

By midnight the two of them smell of lavender soap, and their skin is soft and warm and clean. Anne lies on her side, her damp hair cool against his face as he spoons her body closely. If he felt tired before he is exhausted now and drapes his arm over her, pulling her close. Anne sighs and wriggles her bottom into him. Oh why did she do that? They really need sleep, but his body is already responding.

'Is that what I think it is?' Anne says, sleepily.

Gilbert tries to shift away. It'll go down after a while – but not if Anne keeps doing that.

'I can't help it,' she whispers, stroking him. 'I want you inside me –'

The word 'again' is barely out of her mouth before he finds himself between her thighs once more. He slips down under the blankets in order to kiss her there. Anne pulls him back.

'Don't make me wait, I want you now.'

Her words make him harder still. After their lovemaking he is bigger than he usually is and he knows he will have to go even slower. He lifts himself above her, putting all his weight on his wrists. Again Anne pulls him close.

'I need to feel you, Gilbert. I need to feel _all_ of you.'

'What if I hurt you –'

'What if you don't?'

It is raw and primal this time. Perhaps because the fire has died and they can no longer see each other. Perhaps because they know what their bodies can do, and how far they can push them. His chest pounds against hers, his belly smacks into her belly, and his fingers entwine with her fingers as her arms rest above her head.

With every thrust he feels himself go further. It shouldn't be possible, but he feels for all the world like a thick piece of rope being uncoiled, hand over hand, as she pulls him in. The movement is hypnotising, and her short staccato moans sounding over and over. Usually he knows when the end is coming, but this takes him by surprise. Ferocious in its strength, he finds it almost impossible to fight against. Almost. He still manages – just – but the effort it takes not to bury himself in her at the last, feels like it might end him.

He is asleep soon after, and when he wakes with the dawn light her hands and his are still woven together.

 _..._

Things he will miss when she is gone: the early morning sunshine on her bare shoulders, the sound of his brush going through her hair, her pretty white feet peeping out from behind the screen as she uses the chamber pot. She doesn't dress behind there, however. She sits on the bed and he watches raptly as she returns all her layers once more. Chemise, corset, stockings, then stands up to shimmy into the rest: bloomers, petticoat, another petticoat, the little bustle pad, and finally her yellow dress. How on earth had she managed to remove all that in bed? It is no longer his bed, but their bed. He is already thinking about the next time he can have her here. It will never be this simple again.

'What will you tell Marilla about where you stayed last night?'

'I can't imagine her asking,' says Anne, weaving a simple braid into her hair.

She shouldn't have gone to bed with it damp, though she isn't thinking of the health risks Mrs Lynde drummed into her, but the strange way it has dried.

'She and Martin won't get back from Kensington until Sunday. Marilla wanted to return straight after her check up with Dr Chowdury, but I think Martin liked the idea of spending a little time away from Avonlea.'

'Who's minding Green Gables?'

'I am. Davy moves into Soren's today.'

'So you'll be there alone…'

Anne tucks the braid around her head and then looks about for her stocking tie. It is poking out from under the bed and she lifts her skirts, baring the tops of her thighs.

'Yes,' she smiles, quietly elated that she has managed to thread the fiddly tie on the first try.

It then occurs to her what this smile will be telling Gilbert.

'But no,' she utters, and shakes her head. 'I couldn't, I wouldn't, any more than I could do this in your parent's house. What we have, what we've done,' she says, reaching for his hand and kissing it, 'it belongs in our world, and nowhere else. You see that, don't you?'

For some reason her answer reassures him, but it saddens him too. They had made their own world; yet they would never be able to live in it, only visit, like a dream.

'I promise I won't come any closer than your gate. So long as Rossi has moved on.'

Anne leaves the bed and walks over to the desk. Her limp is more pronounced this morning and she holds the back of the chair.

'I don't think he'll have any choice about the matter,' she answers, peering out through a chink in the curtains.

Outside the chime is tinkling on the tree bough, polished scraps of metal like gold in the sun.

Gilbert tucks the sheet around his hips and follows her to the desk.

'Do you think he will make Ruby happy?'

They both know the answer to that, but it is done now. The only thing left to do is hope for the best.

'He makes her happy now,' Anne says quietly, 'and that's a good start. I have a lot of doubts about the match, but I also know I'm not very good at this matchmaking business. I thought Mirabelle was perfect for Jo, and…'

'Fred perfect for Diana?' Gilbert ventures.

Anne slumps against the desk, then half sits on it.

'Something's gone wrong at a Providential level, Gilbert. Fred Wright and Diana Barry are made and meant for each other. Now he's become a policeman and she's being wooed by an English gentleman.'

'Gentleman?'

Gilbert slips in between her legs and shifts her further onto the desk.

'I received her latest letter when you were in White Sands. She met him during a thunderstorm, in the Colosseum of all places. He fetched her parasol when it flew away.'

As she says this, her fingers trace over the width of his bronzed shoulders. She loves watching gooseflesh appear, his Adam's apple bobbing with anticipation, the way he is tenting the sheet.

'And he's wooing her, is that what she said?'

'She said he joined their touring party. She also said he planned on making a tour of the Maritimes in September to witness our "famous Autumn colour". She even asked me to ask your mother if he might stay in your Spare Room.'

'You mean he might come here?'

Skirts sliding up slowly.

'I'd call that wooing, wouldn't you?'

Sheet slipping to the floor.

'And what would you call this?'

Voice thick with longing as Anne guides him through the opening in her bloomers and nuzzles him against her.

'Bliss. Oh my love, why is it morning, why do we have to part so soon?'

At the word 'part' he is inside her again, utterly naked while she is fully dressed. The foxglove samples rattle, the sunlight turns her hair into a halo, and then, what is wrong with him, he begins to feel like he might cry. He crams his mouth on hers instead, gripping her hard at her waist. The only sound is the tinkle of glass… and a tap tap tap on the cottage door.

He freezes deep inside her, maybe they can ignore it, maybe whoever it is will go away. But they cannot ignore the sound that comes next. A firm, insistent knock followed by his father's voice.

'Gilbert Aurelius, you slug-a-bed, unlock the door!'

Slipping from her body unsatisfied makes him feel like he might be sick, and he wraps the sheet about him, taking care to leave it bunched at the front, and slowly unbolts the door. Anne remains on the desk behind it, frozen to the spot.

'Pa! Morning! Hello Mayflower,' he says as blithely as he can manage.

'Smells like a Turkish bath in here. You had one, I see,' he says, peering by his son to the shallow tub in the middle of the floor. 'Here,' he adds, holding out little May.

Gilbert blanches. 'What am I supposed to do exactly?'

'Take her, of course. Your Ma ain't feeling right this morning and I got work to do, so if you're going to laze about in your bedclothes, you can durn well help me out – though maybe put some duds on first. I'll wait.'

'Pa, I – I – need to use the pot. Take May back to the house, I'll be there in a minute.'

' _One_ minute,' his father says crossly. 'Oh confound it, May, you need to use the pot too.'

Gilbert does not stand on ceremony and quickly shuts the door. He is expecting to see a look of laughter, or at least relief on Anne's face, and is surprised to find she looks like she might cry now. Or maybe it was only a trick of the light? As he approaches she beams at him and shifts from the desk.

'I must go, may I take Rebel and go the long way round, by Yellow Birches? I don't want anyone seeing me along Newbridge Road and my foot's a little sore.'

'Of course, I – ah… can you ride bareback? Pa might be in the barn before you can saddle him up.'

He hadn't thought about this part, when his darling girl would have to skulk away as though she had done something wrong. That sick feeling he had before is even stronger now and he quickly throws on his work clothes.

'I'll tell Pa he'll just have to wait,' he says, gruffly, 'May is their child, not mine –'

'No, Gilbert. Absolutely not. I can walk –'

'No, you can't –'

'Yes,' says Anne, coolly, 'I can, and I will.'

Her chin rises smartly and her eyes flash bright.

'I'll simply walk the long way round. No one at home is expecting me, except the cows and chickens, and they'll just have to wait.'

'Not on that foot, I won't let you…'

What is happening, are they quarrelling now, is this really how their night together is going to end – oh why had he taken her on the desk when he could have been taking her home?

'Anne!' he calls, hobbling after her in boots that are not quite on.

He assumed she would have already passed through the hedge, and finds her pausing beneath the oak tree, watching the chime shift and trill on the breeze.

'It's spellbinding, isn't it?' she says, faintly, 'this dear old world? I truly don't want to be anywhere else…'

What world does she mean – their world, this world? And what did that have to do with a baby's plaything? Gilbert knows he isn't going to get any sort of answer from her right now, not when Anne has that look on her face.

'Borage!' he blurts out.

Anne's looks at him, bemused. 'Gilbert, there are hundreds of species of borage –'

'Cynoglossum virginianum, then. It grows everywhere –'

So where is it, he thinks, usually you can't see a blade of grass without these small blue flowers poking out of it? He scans the flagstone path, then the hedge, the shady places beneath the oak. It's then he sees the wilted bouquet Anne had carried last night. Not all of the flowers have curled up, however. Some tiny white and yellow ones bloom undaunted. He picks up the sprig, and brings it to Anne.

'Use these then. You need to steep it for about –'

'I know what to do.' She takes it from him and considers it briefly. 'Anaphalis margaritacea, I was going to wear it in my hair.'

He runs his hand over her long red braid.

'Everlasting,' he says, softly.

Anne's eyes are brimful of feeling, but what she feels he does not know. He could identify every species here, their genus, their order, their kingdom, but the woman he made love to minutes ago will forever mystify him.

'I have to go – I'm going –' she says and slips through the hedge like a curl of smoke.

And because he loves her he lets her go, and doesn't do one thing to stop her.


	22. Chapter 22

**_Chapter twenty-two_**

What to do with a baby? Tuck her in her crib? She won't sleep. Sit her in her basket? She won't stay. Carry her about on his hip? But then how is he supposed to get anything done? He has her jiggling on his knee and attempts to make some notes in his book about the foxgloves he is working on. Not thinking of Anne, not thinking of Anne, not thinking of Anne at all...

'No!' he says sharply, as May grabs at his fountain pen.

He places her on the floor then and lets her play with the tassels on the rug. His Ma considers this unhygienic, but she is sleeping off some strange sort of fever that comes on in the night. When he asked her about it earlier, she said to bring her cohosh tea, but not yet, in an hour or two.

She doesn't get that; she barely manages to snatch an extra ten minutes before she is roused by frantic knocking on the front door.

Gilbert leaps from the dining chair thinking hopefully of Anne. His mother rushes into the dining room thinking crossly of Gilbert. Little May carries on chewing the tassels, she doesn't stir, not even when Luella Gillis comes dashing into the room.

The poor woman doesn't show any surprise either, though it is close to nine and Ro Blythe is still in her nightgown. Luella's face is blotchy, smeared with tears and mucous. It takes some minutes before the Blythes can make her out.

Ro leads her neighbour to a chair and kneels down before her, patting Luella's trembling hands while signalling Gilbert for his handkerchief.

'Blow your nose dear, and take a deep breath,' says Ro with practiced patience.

Gilbert's handkerchief is almost sopping before Luella can begin.

'It's Ruby… oh my little girl… oh Ruby, what have you done…'

On hearing this Ro signals her son again, this time to send him out of the room. He nods, half relieved, half wary of the news to come, and is about to close the door when Luella speaks again.

'No Gilbert, you mustn't go! I need him – Ro – you must lend me your son – we haven't a moment to lose!'

It comes out in a sticky, halting wail that Ro and Gilbert piece together. Luella's first suspicions were roused when she noticed her best tablecloth was missing, as well as her Belgian lace pillowslips, and the doilies on the mantel. At first she suspected thieves – some heartless rogue with a penchant for fine linen, and went to check on Ruby's hope chest.

'Five years worth of sewing in there, accomplished sewing too, whatever those Pyes might say about taking firsts for their overworked crochet! Well I knew it would just about break Ruby's heart to find it had all been stolen… It never occurred to me that my daughter was breaking mine. She left this at the bottom of her trunk…' Luella sniffs, digging out a soggy bit of paper, and offering it to Gilbert.

 _Dearest Mother_ , Ruby had written _, now that we have your blessing Davy and I simply cannot wait a minute more! You know the trouble waiting causes, just look at Diana and Fred. Well I don't mean to make the same mistake. Davy knows a captain in Charlottetown who can marry us in the morning. We mean to take a short honeymoon then shift into Soren's house as a properly married couple. You'll find your slips and tablecloth there. You always said I could have them when I married so I was sure you wouldn't mind. But if you could see your way to passing on the cranberry glass lamps in the Spare Room, Davy and I would be ever so grateful…_

Gilbert looks up from the letter.

'She eloped?'

Luella falls into sobs again.

'Married – away from home – by some Captain instead of Mr Allan – I can't believe Ruby would do this to me – I can't believe Davy could let her!'

'You want me to follow her I take it, you want me to go to Charlottetown?'

'You've always been one of her favourites, Gilbert, she'll listen to you – Ro please, you must ask John to spare him!'

Ro stands, and takes the letter from Gilbert's hands, skimming it briefly.

'He'll have to spare me too,' she says grimly, and scurries out of the room.

Gilbert's brow wrinkles with puzzlement. He follows his mother into her bedroom and gets a door slammed in his face.

'Of course Ro should go,' Luella tells him as he returns to the dining room. 'She helps all the young brides. I must say I've missed her Ladies Meets. Yes, your mother will know what to do… Lord knows _I_ failed her!' and she slumps onto the table and all over Gilbert's work.

Ro reappears ten minutes later with a scrubbed face and her travelling cloak.

'Is the gout still troubling Sam, can he get a message to John? If we hurry we can catch the midday train to White Sands and make the connection there.'

'You're not taking little May are you?' says Luella, scooping the child into her lap. 'I shall have to put my foot down there, it really wouldn't be right. I'll take her with me and have Susan or Myra mind her. They have three between them already, so you can be sure they know what's what.'

Ro's face softens and she smiles warmly at her friend.

'You are the best of mothers, Lu, and I won't hear another word about it. Now Gilbert dear, stop dawdling and go and pack a bag.'

…

It is his mother's bag that Gilbert notices. The one she took when she made her home visits. They are on their way to Charlottetown before he brings it up, when the man they had been sharing a carriage with alights at Philipstown with his yappy dog.

' _Of course_ I had to bring it with me.'

Gilbert takes the seat opposite his mother and rests a foot on one knee.

'Because of Davy's… affliction?'

'Tealeaves and garlic sorted that out long ago. He'll always have it, but it shouldn't trouble him too much… if he's mindful.'

'So why the bag, surely you don't think Ruby could be hurt?'

'There are many hurts a woman can suffer, and I like to be prepared.'

Ro takes the bag upon her lap and clutches it possessively.

'What have you got in there?' Gilbert asks, carefully.

'I don't have to tell you that.'

'So you're happy for me to make up wart creams, gout powders, treat Miss Andrews and Mrs Abbot, Micah Sloane, Eben White, the Shaw twins, the Buote baby, but you draw the line at the girl I've been living next door to my entire life?'

'Ooh you sound like your father,' Ro mutters, clutching her bag closer still.

Gilbert will not be deferred, his mother encouraged him into her world, to pretend otherwise now is just stubbornness.

'Tansy, pennyroyal, Queen Anne's Lace?' he persists, foot jiggling impatiently as his mother huffs.

'I know very well what you're driving at, Gilbert.'

'Ma, it's almost two in the afternoon. Ruby will be a married woman by now –'

'And if she's not?' Ro pounces, her eyes cat-like in their fierceness. 'If Davy Rossi has lured her away in order to seduce her? If I can protect Ruby from the consequences of such an act then believe me I will do it.'

Such a speech would silence any opponent – anyone who has not been raised by Rowena and John Blythe, that is. Gilbert stares back at his mother, undaunted, foot still jiggling.

'By consequence you mean baby?'

'That's just what a man would say. By consequence I mean shaming her family, being shunned by the people who dote on her most, losing any chance of marrying a man of good character, possibly losing her life. There is more to this than a baby – '

'No,' says Gilbert with equal defiance, 'there isn't. You can't be sure Ruby will suffer any of those consequences. When you say you like to be prepared, what you mean is prepared for the worst. What about the best? Have you forgotten, where there is a love of man there is a love of healing?'

'Oh now you sound just like our Anne!'

'Thank you. Though it was Hippocrates.'

'Yes Gilbert, I'm aware of that. May I remind you he also said, let food be your medicine and medicine your food. Nature provides us with every means to protect ourselves.'

She doesn't need to remind him, the memory of his mother repeating that quote as she tipped some bitter concoction down his throat or wrapped his ear in a stinking poultice when he was a boy, is burned into his brain. But he isn't her boy anymore, she as much as admitted he is a man. And Gilbert is finding out that being a man means not going along with everyone else, but showing them where you stand.

He leans forward, hazel eyes fixed on her gold ones.

'That's why I didn't want to follow you into herbalism. It has nothing to do with money. I could make a fine living from it, and so could you, if you weren't trying to stick one in the eye of Dr Spencer and Dr Blair. If I'm good at what I do it's because I follow the method and practice science demands. You want to go by the moon and the stars; you believe we are part of nature. Well I think we should rise above it.'

Ro's bag is now suffering the fate of a certain pillow. Men! They make a few potions and suddenly they think the universe revolves around them. Soaring above the moon and stars, who does Gilbert think he is, the sun?

'Do you truly think a doctor cares more for his patients than I do? Why do you think so many folks come to me, why advice from the likes of Dr Lavendar is so sought after? Doctors? Butchers and prescribers of poppycock! You don't know how your father suffered when he was ill, the money we wasted on tonics and pills. One fellow wanted to _starve_ him. That was Dr Blair. The same man who advised me to take some respite at the Halifax Insane Asylum because I could not let go of my grief. After that, I vowed to be true to my gifts, just like my grandmother, and her mother before. When you announced your intention to become a doctor I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But later when you and Anne became… close, I saw Redmond as a way out for you, a way to go beyond the narrow path Avonlea offered.'

Gilbert considers this quietly. His foot stops jiggling and he brings it down.

'Why do you call Avonlea narrow?'

'Because that is what it is. A tiny village filled with big-hearted people with narrow minds. Quick to help, and even quicker to judge.'

'You're no different. Judging doctors the way you do.'

Ro laughs, mostly at herself.

'Whoever said I was different? I'm as stubborn as they come.'

'I wish you would bend on this, Ma,' says Gilbert, touching her bag.

'Not a hope,' says Ro, still smiling at her son.

Gilbert leans back in his seat once more, remembering a room in a house in Kingsport. Dark, desperate and utterly hopeless.

'Exactly,' he murmurs. 'Exactly.'

…

For the rest of the journey they talk on the best way to find Ruby. Ro plans to meet up with Mr Oliver at the Echo; if anyone knows where a pair of runaway lovers would hide out in this city, he would. Gilbert decides to try his luck with Mr Keats and Mrs Captain, who might know the identity of the man who was marrying the two.

It turns out to be much easier than they hoped. They find Ruby not ten steps from their train, perched on a peeling bench at the Charlottetown station.

Oh yes, she is married, she is very, very married, and she proffers her small, gloved hand. They had their ceremony in a darling little church in the heart of the city. A sea captain married them, a big burly fellow, who sailed on many adventures and thought the world of her Davy...

As she says his name her eyes fill with tears and she mocks herself without mercy. What a sop she is, a married woman, what on earth is there to cry about?

By this time Ro is sitting by her, Gilbert purchasing them return fares for the next train to Bright River.

He doesn't need to do that, you know, Davy will be along any moment. They are going on their honeymoon, to a little seaside village ten miles up the coast. He is coming for her, he really is. He promised to meet her here, once he finished up some matter with a businessman he knew. Did she mention how burly the Captain was? And he thought the world of her Davy. He won't be long, he promised, they'll see – she can't possibly go, she mustn't. Dear Davy had his heart broken once before, he would never survive it if he thought she'd run away...

Gilbert tries to take her hand. The girl looks exhausted and bent, as though she hasn't moved for hours.

'Take a stroll with me, Ruby, you know I always like being seen with such a fine girl on my arm.'

Ruby looks up at him, blankly, then pleads with Ro to send him away. He later finds out she hasn't moved from the bench since this morning. Davy had left here there seven hours ago and promised to come straight back. And Ruby had waited, legs cramping, bladder bursting; so numb with shock she didn't even know she had wet herself.

'Come dear,' Ro tells her gently, throwing her travelling cloak over Ruby's shoulders, 'Davy can take care of himself. Lets get you home.'

…

When Gilbert declares he will not be going with them, Ro doesn't try and change his mind, but she does extract a promise from him: no violence, none, does he understand?

Gilbert slowly shakes his head, assuring his mother that he only wants to get the other side of the story. He will give Rossi the benefit of the doubt, for Ruby's sake, for Anne's.

He looks in all the usual places along Congress Row that evening. The following day he looks in the likely ones, the hospital, the police station, the church where Ruby said she was married, the merchant houses, where she claimed Davy bought her a diamond as big as a hazelnut. He is leaving one establishment when he catches sight of a familiar figure. Not ten feet away is Mr Morrissey, the man who owned the shop in White Sands where Gilbert bumped into Davy.

Before he knew Anne, Gilbert would have dismissed the sighting. He knows now such a coincidence cannot be ignored.

'Mr Morrissey!' Gilbert calls, tipping his hat at the haberdasher.

Morrissey frowns. 'Do I know you?'

'I was the White Sands schoolmaster, sir.'

'Doesn't mean I know you. Not unless you were a regular customer of mine.'

The man flops down on a low stone wall and mops his neck with his handkerchief.

'My offspring are all above school age, worse luck. The older they get the more trouble they bring – they never tell you that!'

'All settled and happy, I take it?' says Gilbert sitting next to him.

'Eldest is on the railways, thank the Lord, middle's in the Navy, worse luck, and the youngest, she's... she's in Guelph.'

Guelph. Where had Gilbert heard that name before? Two coincidences now. Three if you count the Navy. He must find a way to keep Morrissey talking. Gilbert eyes the smart leather case lying beside him, and another question forms in his head.

'You're here on business, I take it?' he says, motioning to the case.

This makes Morrissey smile; he likes to be thought the business man.

'Never miss a chance for making money. That's not why I'm here of course, but I thought since I had to come I might as well turn a chore into a pleasure. I'm venturing into women's knickknacks, costume jewellery and the like. I'll bet you have a sweetheart,' he adds, cajolingly, 'what do you say to these?'

Morrissey flicks open his case revealing little brass hooks where gaudy beads and necklaces hang like lost forgotten dreams. The spangled light they send out is dazzling, but it is the simplest design that catches Gilbert's eyes. A wide smile spreads over his face, he almost feels like laughing.

'May I?' he says, and picks out a little gold chain strung with a pink enamel heart.

It reminds Gilbert of the piece of candy he had tried to give Anne as a peace offering – and she had crushed it without a word.

'It's a pretty thing,' says Morrissey, 'perhaps a little plain. Are you sure your girl wouldn't prefer some of these paste earrings, you'd swear they were emeralds – or perhaps she likes pearls?'

The question unnerves him; undoubtedly because Gilbert has a vague idea Mr Morrissey is right. Though he is well aware of the old adage that pearls are for tears, he can't help think that Anne would adore them. But not these bulging yellowy things. The heart pendant, however, he can't help taking that.

When he heads back to Charlottetown station that evening he should feel glum about failing to track down his quarry. Instead his mind keeps turning to the trinket he bought. It feels almost warm in his pocket, like a little glow of light in the dark. The thought of stringing it round Anne's neck summons a flutter in his heart.

Loving Anne is like learning to hold a butterfly in your hand; you always know there will come a time when she'll fly away. But he can get used to that; he can find a way.

Tomorrow he will see her, tomorrow he will make it right. He is Gilbert Blythe, after all. He can't help it.


	23. Chapter 23

**_Chapter twenty-three_**

When Gilbert makes his way to Green Gables the following afternoon the Rossis' buggy is still in the drive. Husband and wife, along with Ro, Anne, and May sit in a line on the porch.

Anne leaps from Matthew's old rocker when she sees him, little May in her arms, then sits down almost guiltily as Ro marches toward her son.

'Before you say anything, they _know_ ,' Ro whispers, gesturing to Martin and Marilla. 'Did you find him?'

Scanning her son's face she quickly realises he didn't. Her shoulders droop as she ascends the porch steps and offers him a stool next to Anne. The curious girl shoots up again, depositing May in Ro's lap, and after mumbling a flustered greeting offers to fetch some refreshment. Gilbert barely has time to answer before she disappears inside.

The heart that had fluttered in his pocket now feels like it's throbbing in his throat. But he can't go after her, not with Marilla and Martin's faces so urgently trained on him. He forces himself to sit back and smile and tell them all he knows: the reverend of the church Ruby mentioned held no wedding service that Saturday, but a porter at a hotel near the railway station remembered an officer and a gold haired girl take two rooms late Friday night.

' _Two_ rooms – you certain?' Martin asks him, leaning forward on the swing-seat.

'Of course they took two rooms,' Marilla assures him, squeezing his gnarled brown hand. 'Ruby may be a flirt but she is also from Avonlea. Not one of our girls would spend the night with a man without marrying him first.'

'Looks like they weren't married at all,' Martin continues, oblivious to the young man opposite him whose cheeks have now reddened to an alarming degree. 'And now he's run off again... I hoped maybe Ruby'd give him a reason to stay. I tried to give him what he thought he lacked, but he never would take a durn thing from me – uh, pardon ladies,' he mumbles.

Marilla exhales loudly. Ro purses her lips. Gilbert's eyes keep straying to the front door. Only when he feels his mother's hand on his knee does he remember to continue.

'Ah, yessir, it appears no marriage took place. Two officers were staying at the same hotel and mentioned they were setting sail next day. The porter swears Davy's trunk was sent to Arrow Point that morning.'

Ro frowns at this, and turns to Martin.

'But Davy is on shore leave this summer, didn't you fix up Soren's house?'

She is answered by Martin's crisp white handkerchief flying up to his face.

'Oh Martin, forgive me, I'll leave you be – '

'Absolutely not,' Marilla cuts in. 'You'll stay to tea, the both of you, there's nothing more to be done. I'm grateful to you, Gilbert,' she adds, 'and not too clannish to admit Ruby Gillis made a narrow escape. There's a lot to be thankful for.'

Not that her face reveals such thanks, until Anne reappears on the porch. Like a ray on sunshine on an overcast day, Marilla's grim visage suddenly brightens.

'Mmm,' she says, inhaling deeply, 'caraway buns, and a fresh pat of parsley butter.'

'They're good with coffee,' Anne says, shyly, and stands before Gilbert and offers him a cup.

He holds it high, horribly aware that it's rattling on the saucer. His eyes on hers, hers fixed on his, neither noticing the steaming liquid spilling over the lip until it scalds his thumb.

He leaps from the stool, knocking it over as the coffee drips onto his thigh.

'Oh Gilbert, I'm sorry,' Anne utters, setting the pot on the floor and reaching for a napkin.

She isn't thinking of mopping him down, surely? Yes, she is! Her hand goes to trousers and Gilbert leaps again, almost toppling over the geraniums.

'Goodness, keep still!' she huffs, shuffling towards him, only stopping at the sound of titters coming from Marilla and Ro.

John Blythe rides up on Rebel then, looking for his wife. It's getting onto five o'clock and he hasn't had his tea. For reasons best known to Marilla, this makes her laugh even harder, and she waves at John, with her brass handle cane, beckoning him in.

'There's tea here, John – though I might skip the coffee. Take your boy's chair. Anne, show Gilbert our washroom.'

Anne hastens inside, Gilbert following, and catches his hand just beyond the threshold.

'Wait,' she murmurs and pulling the door to, leans her ear to the crack.

The laughter gets louder, which is not unexpected, but the murmur that follows surprises them.

'The look on his face, like Anne was pouring moonlight.'

'I knew exactly whose cup it was going into, no one else could have distracted her so.'

'Told you,' says John, in triumph. 'Those two are set on each other and have been for months.'

'Oh you do like to rub it in, John Blythe. Speaking of which, that ointment Gilbert made up a while back, do you think he'll be making some more? Rachel said it did marvellous good for her callouses, softened them right out.'

'He's working on a new one now, putting peppercorns in it, for aches and pains. Much better than the ol' liniment –'

'Better smelling too,' Ro sasses, and the four fall into laughter again.

Gilbert is now almost nose to nose with Anne. Her lids are lowered, auburn lashes fanned, and a hint of a smile plays over her lips. He is this close to brushing his mouth over hers when Martin chimes in.

'Anne's been busy too, writin' up a storm,' he says proudly.

'Never thought much of the serial that ran in the Echo last year,' says Marilla. 'Sentimental nonsense. I am glad to see she's returning to the sorts of tales she used to spin when my eyes went bad. The very best kind of medicine, I call it. Ah, how I missed her, missed my girl…'

She sighs again, the sort of deeply contented sigh that only goes to confirm Mrs Lynde's opinion that Mrs Rossi is getting soft. The silence that falls is a long one, and Marilla quickly realises she has revealed too much.

'Unfortunately, she's still a menace with a coffee pot! Have a bun, John – Ro, will you take one?'

A different kind of silence reigns as the four tuck into billowy rolls scented with spices and herbs.

Their children tiptoe into the kitchen. Anne dashes to the water pump and works the lever, Gilbert leaning against the bench, watching. Not until the basin is brimful does it occur to her to stop.

'Thank you for going after Ruby –'

'Anne –'

'– and for trying to find Davy –'

'Anne –'

'And thank you, Gilbert, thank you… for not going after me.'

She meets his eyes now, the hint of a smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

Gilbert crosses his arms. What he longs to do is wrap them around her – but not yet.

In the space he has left her Anne's smile has a chance to grow; her cheeks rise, and her gaze flies up to the ceiling.

'It – it was all too much, you see. Too transcendent, too momentous, too daunting, too raw...'

'I know,' he agrees.

Because he does. It had been exactly like that, though he did not know it until she put it into words. Such an answer would have worried him before, now he can only admire her courage.

His response has the opposite affect on Anne, however. She tilts her head regards him anew.

'You _do?_ '

Gilbert grins. 'I was there too, remember?'

He knows he sounds wry, but he can't help it. He never imagined them dissecting their first night together in the middle of Marilla's spotless kitchen, with a coffee stain down his trousers. Then Anne's smile dissolves and his resolve with it. He cannot keep himself from her for one more moment, and grasps her arms as if he thought they might turn to wings and help her fly away.

'Anne, that night was… the most wonder-filled night of my life.'

She doesn't grasp him back, though something of her smile returns.

'The morning was lovely, too.'

For a moment he is there in the cottage, Anne sitting on his desk, her red hair like a halo glowing in the pink dawn light.

'I'm sorry you had to leave like that.'

'I know,' she says simply, and turns away. 'Oh! I made up the everlasting balm. See? 'and her foot darts out awkwardly.

When he doesn't say anything she pivots quickly and looks for a bit of rag.

'Well I suppose we should blot that coffee stain…'

Finally Gilbert releases her.

'Love, what is it?'

'Oh something… nothing... ' Anne babbles. 'Please don't look at me like that, it isn't anything _we_ did. It's –'

She dashes away from him, into the hall, then pops her head round the doorway.

'Stay there, stay right where you are, I'll be right back!'

Gilbert doesn't wait long; the rag is barely dampened before Anne reappears, a packet of letters in her hand. He doesn't need to read the envelopes to know whom they belong to.

'Those are from your parents.'

Anne breathes in deep and tucks a stray curl behind her ear.

'Actually, they're all from my mother.'

'Your mother?' Gilbert frowns. 'I don't understand.'

Anne presses his fingers around the letters and wraps his hands with hers.

'Take them, read them, maybe then I'll make more sense… But not now. Our folks will be wondering where we are.'

…

That evening instead of heading to the cottage Gilbert continues his walk through the orchard, past the Fletchers, and across the Wright's back fields. Crossing the road he ducks through a row of trees and jogs down the narrow path to the stream.

Though he hasn't been here for months his feet make their way to troll rock out of habit, and he sits atop the sun-warmed stone. The soft bubbling sound of the water seems to welcome him, and he listens for a moment before seeking out the letters.

The first thing he notices is that all six envelopes are addressed to Walter Shirley, in a delicate hand he can only assume is his wife's. They all appear to be written in the weeks after Anne's birth. And being the logical man that he is, Gilbert seeks out the date to signify which one was written first. Inside he finds what can only be described as a love letter to their daughter. Every inch of little Anne is detailed in the most deft, poetic language, from the tuft on her head like a cardinal's crest, to her coos and burbles like clear cool water sluicing over silvered rocks.

Gilbert stops reading for a moment and listens to the stream again. Grinning as he thinks of Anne at – what was the date, May 20th? – she could only have been ten weeks old. A bittersweet ache blooms on his chest as he realises that just two weeks later Anne would have been orphaned.

Placing the letter in its envelope, he brings out the second, then the third. All of them cataloguing in spare yet touching language the beauty of their daughter, as she gazed at the shaft of light spangled with motes of dust, and blew a pearly bubble of milk when Bertha tried to burp her.

An image of Anne reading these three letters comes to him; her wide grey eyes widening ever further, her long fingers absently twisting the end of her braid. The fourth letter must have felt like her mother's loving hand slapping her hard in the face.

Only now does Gilbert understand why Bertha had written what she had before. Walter had not been away when she wrote the previous letters; he was delirious with fever. And like a wife waiting for her husband to return from an excursion, Bertha recounted each moment he had missed. She had not believed she would lose him, did not once expect him to die. The disbelief she feels in the fourth letter comes out as incandescent rage. Gilbert has never read such hate. Hate for the illness that tortured her husband, for the years Bertha must face without him – even Anne's red tuft of hair seemed to mock at her pain.

The fifth letter reads like a fever dream; Walter is not dead, he can't be, it is all a mistake and any moment he will stroll through the gate and she will wrap herself around his body, one that is living and vital and whole. Bertha's writing is sinuous, almost sensual; her craving for closeness, his smell, his laugh, makes Gilbert falter and blush. How is it possible that he recognises so much of Anne in this stranger, and why is it Anne he pictures as he read Bertha's words?

The sixth letter is just a single page. The fever has her, she knows it, and she is frantic for her daughter. Mrs Tom had taken her into her home, robbing Bertha of her last days with her baby. The final words she ever wrote:

 _Forgive me, sweetheart, forgive me._

The letter is folded slowly as Gilbert thinks on those last words. Who was she asking forgiveness of: her husband or her daughter? Anne must have asked the same question. What had it done to her to open her letters with such sweet expectation, only for it to end like that?

He chides himself for not seeing sooner the affect her mother's words had had. And then from nowhere (no not nowhere) the memory comes: of his mother still in the blacks she wore for Lottie, clutching his father's handkerchief. When she saw her son, then just ten, she fled the room, leaving the crumpled square of cambric on the floor. And Gilbert had picked it up and seen drops of dried blood, and they were still bright red.

Red like the stain he had placed on Anne's finger. Red like blobs of sealing wax.

Bertha Shirley had addressed those letters to her husband, had sealed them, and had them sent to herself. If Gilbert hadn't seen first hand what grief could bring a body to, he would have thought her mad. But this wasn't madness; it was a woman trying to keep herself sane as she watched her husband die, knowing she would likely follow.

She had poured more love into Anne in those few short weeks they had together, than some children receive in a lifetime. All the same, it must have come like a blow, the first time Anne had read them. And she had kept it to herself, till today.

It strikes Gilbert now what a gift Anne has given him. She did not hide, she did not fight, she did not fly away. She offered up this imperfect treasure because she trusted him. Not as his lover, or even his friend. But as his wife.

It is real, what they have is as real and true as any ceremony made in church.

'She is my wife,' he says aloud. 'My wife!' he says again.

And a white bird lights upon a branch and whistles at his joy.


	24. Chapter 24

**_Chapter twenty-four_**

Monday sees the coming of a different kind of letter. Word of Gilbert's wart cream has reached as far as Glen St Mary where John's Uncle David lives. David is a doctor there, and should have retired years ago, but a combination of the Blythe work ethic and no heir to leave his practice to, means he is still making rounds at the spry age of 87. Gilbert has only met him twice, and beyond his Swan-like moustache (which extends to sideburns that haven't been in fashion since 1850) all he really knows of the man is his opinion on his mother. It was unfortunate bit of business, but David couldn't help agree with Mary-Maria's assertion that Ro Blythe was an unnatural influence. Of course, being an upstanding member of the community David was far more politic with his opinion. And being the clannish sort, his nephew John, pretended not to notice. And so it was that every year the Avonlea Blythes sent out an invitation to Christmas. And every year the Glen Blythes found themselves otherwise engaged.

Gilbert has never been to the Glen. Nor has he missed it. But John does not miss the inferred meaning in David's letter. The man is "impressed and rather proud" and has "colleagues who asked for an introduction." Most surprising of all is the invitation to Acacia House, though this only extends to "the boy".

The boy scoffs at the suggestion. Leave the farm mid-summer? Only a town-man would suggest such a thing. John can't help chuckling at his son's response. All the same, a short visit might be managed. Gilbert is planning on becoming a doctor after all, and David is getting on…

There is no time to discuss it further – nor is it physically possible, because Gilbert has stuffed the end of his rye toast into his mouth in order to pull up his boots.

He is in the fields a few minutes before six, and flops into bed twenty-fours later, after spending long hours convincing Adam Wright's cow to soak her infected udder in a steaming basin of mullein tea.

John reluctantly gives him leave to sleep in until the debauched hour of 10 am. When Laurie arrives red cheeked and breathless, he finds Gilbert squatting on the doorstep of the cottage, spitting tooth paste into the flowerbeds.

He leaps to his feet and grabs the satchel on his desk.

'You got the water boiling, I hope –'

Laurie shakes his head. '

'S'not Becky, Gil, she's right as rain. It's the sun!'

Gilbert halts, one boot half on.

'The sun?'

Laurie nods. 'Uh huh. You said, remember? Back when I got them goats. You said the day of the eclipse you'd take me up to the Sunrise Garden so's we could watch the moon pass over the sun.'

The satchel is dropped and the boot falls to the floor.

'I did say that. But this eclipse is not till sunset, Fry-Pie.'

Laurie grins with pride at the nickname and bounces on his toes.

'I know that. I just wanted to be sure _you_ did. You're always so busy, with the farmin' and the doctorin' and gaddin' off all over the Island…'

He stops bouncing then and a wistful look passes over his freckled face. He does not need to say more, it's clear he is thinking of Fred. Gilbert scruffs his hair, the way his Pa used to.

'Of course I remember. Now can you remember to bring two sheets of paper?'

'Sure,' Laurie shrugs. 'I got plenty. Mama's always at me to write to Fred. I dunno why. He reckons readin' is for folks who are too precious to work in the rain.'

'Your brother was teasing. Farmers are the some of the best read folk around. You've seen the size of an almanac.'

'But he ain't a farmer anymore. Fred's a constable now.'

The boy says constable the way a Grit would say Conservative.

'And _you_ are in charge of bringing that paper,' Gilbert replies. 'Sun sets at nine, so meet me here after supper and we'll head up to the garden –'

'With Miss Shirley?' says Laurie, eyeing him.

'You'll have to ask her that.'

'Aww. I gotta get back. I'm s'posed to be choppin' weeds. Hal and Claude'll have my hide.'

'Not you, Fry-Pie. You're far too clever for those bean poles.'

'I might be smart, but _they've_ got a longer reach,' Laurie jokes, rubbing his behind.

He shoots off through the juniper hedge. Gilbert doesn't know if he turned left or right, and it niggles him all day like an itch he cannot scratch. By supper time he is convinced Anne won't be there – though that doesn't stop him adding some extra pomade to his hair and changing into her favourite shirt.

'Your hair's shinier than Charlie Sloane's chin!'

Gilbert turns to see Laurie in the doorway, some grimy sheets of paper in his hand.

'You should be mindful of your elders and betters,' he says, drolly, 'Mr Sloane is your school master.'

'Not now, he ain't. Not for two more months. This paper do?'

It won't. It's cheap and flimsy and covered in jammy fingerprints. Gilbert's regular supply of paper is in the dining room, but his mother is in there at the moment, trying to talk some sense into the usually sensible Minette Andrews who thinks this evening's eclipse means the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are wending their way toward Avonlea this very minute.

He grabs his book instead and stuffs it into his satchel, along with the spy-glass, a needle, and the antler-handle knife Anne had given him last Christmas.

Laurie whistles with appreciation.

'It used to belong to Matthew Cuthbert,' says Gilbert, handing it over.

'How come you got it then, I thought you had Fred's – the little silver one?'

'I gave that to Miss Shirley.'

'You gave a _girl_ a pocketknife?' Laurie whistles again. 'Mrs Eben's right.'

'Which Mrs Eben. Sloane or White?'

'The Sloane one. She told Papa you're not to be trusted, brewin' up potions like you do. Says you're makin' your mama's work respectable and that it would all end in tears.'

A brief frown flits over Gilbert's face. So it had begun – well why should he be immune? Besides it hadn't affected his business at all. He would return to Redmond with a nice little sum. Redmond. He cannot think of it without picturing Anne, and he lifts his head to the sky.

A large cloud passes over the sun, and it glows like mother-of-pearl. Only now does Gilbert remember the pink enamel necklace. He grabs the handkerchief he had wrapped it in and stuffs it into his pocket.

'Not all tears are shed in sadness, Fry-Pie,' he says, locking the cottage door. 'Come on, I'll race you to the old pine on Newbridge Road!'

…

'It's not budgin', we're gonna miss it,' Laurie whines, and sits up in disgust.

He is sprawled out in the Sunrise Garden chewing on meadow grass and willing the great cloud to move. But after half an hour of this he is bored and he gets up and dusts off his legs.

'What's this one called?' he says to Gilbert, eyeing a stem with a tiny blue-ish flower that has stuck to his knee.

'Field scabious,' says Gilbert, glancing at it briefly, before resuming his sketch once more.

Laurie knows that tone, it means: Shut your trap, I'm busy. The boy huffs in a bored way, and picks another stem.

'And this one?' he says, tossing it on a page bearing the feathery, tentative lines of someone who will not be illustrating any botanical works in the foreseeable future.

'Bulbous buttercup.'

'And this one?'

'Creeping buttercup.'

'And these?' says Laurie tossing grass all over him.

'Hawksweed, Yorkshire Fog and Cocks Foot,' Gilbert recites, without looking up.

Laurie laughs. 'I thought studyin' flowers was fancy nonsense, but those names are bully!'

'Laurent Wright, what would your mother say if she heard you use such language!'

Now Gilbert looks up, then stands abruptly. Paper, ink and fountain pen all falling into the grass. Anne is here and she looks, oh she looks…

Laurie whistles again.

'You look like that lady in the Plantol soap poster!' and winking at them both darts off before Gilbert's big boot can connect with the seat of his pants.

He scurries to the apple tree, still pink and white with blossom. Gilbert remembers to shut his mouth.

'Hello,' he breathes, taking her hands.

'Hello,' Anne says softly.

She lowers her gaze, taking in his polished shoes, navy trousers, the close fitting waistcoat, and crisp cotton shirt. There are careful creases along each sleeve, but his tie is loose and hangs crookedly. Slowly Anne slides her fingers up the dull grey silk before tightening the knot at his throat, smiling as she feels him swallow.

'I – I wasn't sure you were coming,' he stammers. 'I wanted to see you – your letters…'

His voice trails off and he brings her hands to his lips and places a kiss on her fine-boned wrists.

'Anne, you look – you look…' and he shakes his head.

'Nude?' Anne quips.

'Well, I don't suppose Laurie has seen a dress like that before.'

Anne steps back, glancing down at herself.

'Do you like it? Diana sent me the illustration from a magazine in Florence, and I thought I would try it over my white linen. The overdress was pieced together from my old organdie, and the roses are little coils of red ribbon. Very simple to make once you get the knack –'

'I don't think it's the roses that fired Laurie's imagination.'

He draws one long, brown finger along a collar set low on her shoulders. The filmy white fabric frames her supple neck and the graceful lengths of her collarbones, accentuating what Laurie was clearly alluding to when he compared Miss Shirley to the Naiad bathing naked in a lake: the lush expanse of bare skin, luminous, creamy and dotted with freckles.

Gilbert darts a look in Laurie's direction before drawing his finger up to her shoulder.

'I know that one,' he says huskily, tracing a diamond shape over four freckles, 'the great square of Pegasus…'

'Is there no escaping geometry?'

Gilbert cocks an eyebrow and grins.

'Whatsa Pegasus?' Laurie cuts in, ambling back toward them.

He holds out a slender branch of apple blossom and shyly offers it to Anne.

'You know, Fry-Pie. The constellation. Scheat. Alpherat. Markab. Algenib,' Gilbert explains, drawing a square in the air.

Laurie's brow puckers and he shoots a look at Anne.

'Whatsa Pegasus?' he says again.

Anne giggles and settles herself in the long scented grass, beckoning Laurie to follow.

Gilbert settles down next to them, resting his head in his hand. He knows the story well; of Perseus sent to kill the gorgon Medusa, and the winged white horse that sprang from her neck when she was beheaded. Still, he finds himself drawn in, soon hanging on Anne's every word, convinced Perseus is doomed to failure and be forever turned to stone. When Anne makes a swooping gesture with her arm as she describes the sword coming down, he jumps, as does Laurie, who wriggles closer to Gilbert. A moment later coral coloured beams of light burst through frayed ends of cloud. All three look up to see the sun shining low overhead.

'It's gone, that cloud, it's gone!' Laurie cries. 'Quick, where's the paper?'

Gilbert shuffles onto his knees and swiftly tears two pages from his book, then takes the needle from his bag and pierces one sheet through.

'That's _it?_ ' says Laurie, unimpressed. 'That's how you make a pin-hole camera? Why'd you bring the spyglass then?'

'That's for later when the sun goes down. I thought you might like to study the stars. the way you did the with my mother.'

The boy sniffs regretfully.

'Naw, I gotta be home before ten, while there's still some light. Pa don't like me walkin' home in the dark. He can't spare me if I bust an ankle and there's too many sproutin' things to trip on in the warm months. You know, God sure knew what he was doing, laying down a nice clear carpet of snow for the long winter nights. Say, I heard you know how to make a snow cave. Is that true, Gil… Gil… GIL?'

'Sorry, what?' Gilbert says, tearing his eyes from Anne.

Anne laughs again.

'Forget snow caves, Laurie, keep your head in the here and now. This particular eclipse will never be seen again for a hundred years.'

'You sure those Horsemen aren't comin'?' Laurie asks her, shuffling closer to her this time.

'Not when we have a sky-full of warriors to protect us. The dragon, the bear, the archer, the lion. God knows what he is doing, remember?'

Anne can't quite meet Gilbert's eyes as she says this, but her head tilts his direction.

A knot forms in Gilbert's throat and he pulls at his tie again, before snaking his hand through the sweet meadow grass and laying it on hers.

'God knows what he is doing.'

…

Laurie makes it home with minutes to spare, the pinhole camera in one hand, a bouquet of grasses, herbs and flowers in the other.

'The camera I'm keepin'' he says, waving a blank sheet of paper, 'but these are for you,' he adds proudly, laying the posy on the Wrights kitchen table. 'Picked 'em myself, didn't I, Gil? There's ah… comfrey, that's good for your sunburn, Hal, and some colt's foot for Claude's runny nose. Spearmint for you, Papa, I know you like the taste, and these hellebores are for Mama – ow! What'd you do _that_ for?'

He brings his finger to his mouth, after Gilbert slapped it away.

'That's henbane, Laurie, you picked henbane! Get your finger out of your mouth right now, and scrub your hands!'

The young boy scuttles off, red faced. Gilbert is just as crimson.

'I'm sorry – the light was falling so fast – I didn't get a proper look.'

Adam casts a glance at his wife, then ushers Anne and Gilbert out the door.

'I'm sure I appreciate you entertainin' my boy, but keep to the stars from now on. Bad enough my mother-in-law reads chicken gizzards like it was the Echo, don't want to encourage Laurie into the bargain, do we?'

Gilbert shakes his head.

'Do we?' Adam repeats.

'Nossir.'

'Good,' says Adam, 'I'm glad we understand one another.'

The door is closed. Gilbert stands on the back porch in quiet shock.

'I don't want to go home yet, will you come for a stroll with me?' says Anne, linking her arm with his.

'Hmm?'

She squeezes his hand, tenderly.

'It was an accident, Gilbert. Of course Mr Wright was cross, rightly so, but he'll cool off in the morning. People misidentify plants all the time. There's a reason they go to your mother. She knows what's safe and what isn't.'

'Well I don't, obviously,' Gilbert utters, scratching the back of his neck.

Anne removes his hat and presses her head to his.

'Gilbert Blythe, you are the safest person I know… Come, take a ramble with me, through summer woods and over the hill where wild spices grow.'

She pulls him along, their feet moving in tandem along a route they have not travelled together for nigh on a year. By the time they get to the trees that line the edge of the gorge, the stars are bright in the sky. There is no moon to see by, and they pick there way carefully down to the stream.

Gilbert has an ember kindled in less than a minute, and he lays it on the small pile of dried moss Anne plucked from rocks still warm from the sun.

'I read your letters here,' Gilbert says, watching the fire take hold.

'That's good,' Anne says, softly. 'This is a good place.'

They share a silence, lost in thoughts that weave and dart around the other before irrevocably binding them together.

'Anne?'

'Hmm?'

'I want to marry you.'

'I want to marry you, too.'

'Will you wait for me, six years is a long time?'

'I don't think I can wait six minutes. But I will. For you.'

'And you, what can I do for you, love?'

'Well...' Anne purses her lips, pretending to think. 'I would like a ring.'

'A ring?'

Anne nods. 'A wreath then. Will you make one for me? And I'll make one for you.'

'What, you mean from whatever we find growing round here, you mean now, in the dark?'

Anne brings out her little silver knife.

'Pick the plants the firelight touches, that's my only rule.'

'Only where the light touches, got it.'

Gilbert scrambles onto his knees scouring the grasses by the bank of the stream, his antler-handle knife at the ready. The first thing to do is start with a base of reeds, then he can weave different specimens into it. He has already begun a simple braid when he hears Anne's slippers drop onto a rock, before she shimmies up the closest oak tree.

'What are you doing up there?' he calls.

'Don't worry, I'm still in the light!'

She leaps then, lengths of oak leaves in her hand and sits tailor-fashion by the fire.

'Almost done, are you?' she says, presently.

'No fair. I've never made one of these before.'

Gilbert scrambles further from the fire, trying to find something, anything worthy of the beautiful girl in her rosebud gown. The buttercups are ordinary, the daisies are closed, the forget-me-nots are too small to look right in his thick reed wreath. His hands feel their way as he moves further and further from the glow of the fire, when he brushes over a thick clump of leaves and inhales a fresh, living smell.

He carefully take the blade of his knife and slices it clean at the root. Anne is kneeling now, her wreath by her side as she feeds sticks and twigs to their fire. The flames flicker prettily, painting her skin amber, rose and calendula, like the colours of her hair. He smiles then, scoots up behind her, and takes out the ebony combs that hold it back. Watching mesmerised, as her thick red tresses tumble down her back.

'What are you –' Anne queries, peering over her gold bare shoulder.

'Shhh, I'm making your wreath. Where the light touches, right?' he murmurs, lips close to her ear, sending goosebumps all the way down past her collar.

When the wreath is pressed onto her head the tingles intensify, as he scoops up lengths of her hair and tucks it round the reeds. The effect when he finishes is charming, if a little wonky, made up for by the final flourish, which Gilbert presents to her as though they were emeralds and pearls.

'Lily of the Valley? Where did you find it, oh it smells heavenly,' Anne gushes. 'My wreath's a poor cousin in comparison to yours. But I assure you,' she tells him, kneeling up and placing it on his head, 'if I had been in a field of the choicest blooms I would have chosen oak…'

Her hand goes to his chest and the heart beating steadily within it.

'That night in the snowstorm, when I sheltered under your coat, I heard it, Gilbert, I felt it. A heart as strong as oak.'

He cups her small pale face in his broad brown hands, hazel eyes shining suspiciously.

'I love you Lily-maid ,' and he kisses her. 'Naiad,' kissing her again. 'Selkie's child…'

Anne's eyes had shut with each kiss, and they fly open now and pierce him straight through.

'Those letters, my mother, you understand, don't you?'

'I do, Anne,' he promises. 'I do.'

'I do too,' Anne vows to him. 'However long it takes, however long we have to wait, whatever the bend in the road – what, what is it?' she asks, as Gilbert starts feeling about in his crown.

'There's something in there,' he mumbles, 'a mouse, a lizard…'

Instinctively Anne brings Gilbert's head to her chest in order to get a closer look. It doesn't take long for the intruder to be forgotten. For hours he has ached to touch all that delicious bare skin. And when her collar falls further, Anne falls with it, onto the damp cool grass.

He pauses for a moment, taking in her beauty, and the boundless size of her heart. Forgetting to breathe as the magnitude of her promise makes its weight felt.

She would wait for him… _is_ waiting for him… He never believed a woman could love him this much.

The fire burns out, the stars burn bright, and nothing can stop them now.


	25. Chapter 25

_**Chapter Twenty-five**_

It isn't all mossy grass and starlight. Perhaps if they had the whole night together he could have made another house for her, something fragrantly resinous from the springy new growth of the trees that surround them: a little hut, a full moon to see by, and a steady pile of kindling to keep the fire bright.

There is none of that. Not that they notice. Anne only has to shiver once before Gilbert lifts her from the damp grass and up into his arms, sitting her astride his lap as he leans against the oak tree. His thumbs stroke the curve of her waist, while he buries his face in her chest, teeth pulling at the little satin bow of her chemise, before taking her breast in his mouth. Her nipple is already hard and tightens under his tongue, but what he notices most is they way she grinds herself against him. Her skirts are splayed around his lap, and the slit of her bloomers pulls open. The realisation of what she is suggesting makes him leave her breast and gasp.

'Here?' he utters, unable to say more.

'Mmm,' Anne sighs, 'please yes –'

She leans back slightly, offering Gilbert the chance to unbutton his trousers. When he springs out she bends her head and devours him with such an appetite, the back of his head strikes the tree.

The brief shooting pain barely registers as he surrenders to the pleasure, her feverish, almost frantic movements releasing the scent of the lilies. After some minutes they fall from her wreath and she picks them up and slips them behind his ear. Such a simple gesture, yet it sends a tingle right through his body, till he feels like he might shoot sparks. Perhaps he does, for Anne catches alight with a desperate yearning, and guides his hand beneath her petticoats and the mounting heat in the folds of her skirts. Her bloomers are damp, skin satiny against his fingers, voice molten as she utters:

'Here…'

'Please, yes –' Gilbert begs, rocking his hips up toward her.

After some fruitless wriggling Anne yanks up her skirts in frustration.

'A little further forward,' she suggests. 'I mean _my_ forward,' then, 'oh,' then 'ah,' and then 'mmm...'

She slides down slowly, engulfing him. Their whole world becoming the miraculous space, where her body meets his. All Gilbert can do to clasp his hands round her hips and try to keep his eyes from closing.

'You like this?' Anne murmurs, a little while later. 'I wasn't sure you would.'

Gilbert eyes fly open. When he sees her lovely face he is sorry he kept them closed for so long. He can't make out much, Anne's glinting grey irises, the gleam of her bottom lip from her half open mouth.

Her breath is warm and scented with the spearmint leaves she picked earlier this evening. His broad arms encircle her firmly, and he squeezes her close to his chest.

'Yes,' he says, 'I do.'

Anne's eyes are almost radiant. She knows what he is saying, and she knows he knows it too. Then the gleam is gone. Her eyes have shut tight, and the feeling it gives him, knowing she feels the same bliss he does, blossoms into something that borders on tears. He had felt the same way that morning at his desk, and brushed it away, embarrassed, crushing his mouth on hers in hopes he would stifle any chance of blubbing. It won't be so easy this time.

Anne's head is thrown back, pink tongue just visible, fingers digging into his shoulders as she slowly moves up and down. Gilbert watches her, first enraptured, then amazed, as a familiar sound bursts forth. The breathless sighs he had conjured with his hands many times before, now emanate from her throat. Something wholly unexpected happens next. His entire length is caught within her hot tight grip, and a series of exquisite quivers penetrate right through him. The build up of pleasure mounts and mounts until it's all but inescapable. He grasps Anne's waist tightly and tries to lift her off.

'No – please!' Anne begs, and plunges down on him so fast and with such force, Gilbert sucks in his breath and freezes. 'Oh Gilbert, I didn't think –'

'It's fine,' he rasps. 'It's just… I'm really close and I don't want to stop, I don't want this to be over…'

Anne smiles again, at least he thinks she does, he can see the white of her teeth. The cool air hits his skin as she slips off, filmy skirts spilling over his lap. She leans against him, dazedly, and attempts to catch her breath. A frog calls out, and another further, answers, then Anne takes his hands in hers.

'I _didn't_ think,' she says, gently. 'I haven't been thinking at all. When you're inside me, I feel… magical, invincible, so utterly loved. I never expected it to be this way, never understood why God made it so. It's feels so humbling and sublime – _is_ humbling and sublime – to be vulnerable yet powerful at the same time.'

'You've been pondering this a while.'

Anne leans on his shoulder again, and weaves her fingers with his.

'After reading Mother's letters… I can't explain. She loved my father with all of her being and when she lost him… I couldn't help think of when Matthew died – is that strange?'

'Anne, everyone knows you loved Matthew like a father.'

'Giving up Redmond for Marilla was easier than you know. I think I needed her even more than she needed me, and of course I had my Diana. I really didn't mean to fall for you, but you made it so easy, so safe – at least in the beginning. When you went away to Redmond, part of me was relieved, because while I could say goodbye to Marilla and Di, I couldn't say goodbye to you. I knew I wasn't safe anymore… but I couldn't stay away. My mother's letters should have served as a warning; instead I found myself craving you more. Your touch, your word, your promise. I know it doesn't make sense, I know _I_ don't make sense, yet you love me… You _love_ me – even the crazy, even the wrong…'

He doesn't correct her, why would he when they know what they are doing is both crazy and wrong? There is no other soul who would argue otherwise. Because of this they had built their own world, one that only made sense to them. And yet is if that is so, why is it Gilbert's father's words that come to him now? "You'll know it's right," he had said, "when your head, your heart, and your body knows it's right. And when the woman you are with feels the same."

Gilbert never quite caught the meaning of his wisdom; like a butterfly it always hovered out of reach. He had been too much in his head the first time he joined with Anne, too sentimental, too lust-filled, thereafter. Then Anne spoke, and the uncatchable meaning simply rested on the palm of his hand. His touch, his word, his promise; that is what Anne is asking him for, and that is was what his father meant. It makes so much sense Gilbert almost bursts out laughing.

'You know what's crazy?' he says to her, pulling her onto his lap. 'Being parted from you for even one more second.'

There is no awkwardness this time, he knows exactly what he's doing, and enters her so joyfully the laugh inside him almost slips out.

Anne wraps her arms around him, and they move together as one. Sometimes in a frenzy like a wild and pounding sea, then deliciously slow like a frothy wave licking at their toes. His shirt is plastered to his back. Her gown has fallen round her waist, and strands of hair fallen from her wreath stick to her damp pink cheeks. The kisses are searching, curious; lips nuzzling, tongues exploring the taste of salt and sweat. Then Anne begins to shudder again, whimpering into his ear. A cry builds up in her throat and there is no thought of stifling it now.

Gilbert's hips thrust upward convulsively, straining to get closer still. He swears it isn't a tree at his back but a great wave, pushing him on. Anne's arms are in a tangle around his neck, her ragged pleas hot in his ear. He can't pull away, not now, not yet; to leave her body now would be like leaving her to drown. Instead he goes further than he ever dared go, the waves dragging him deeper and deeper. His head is still above water – just – lips parting like a man who is desperate for air. The current really has him now and the sweet abyss rushes to meet him. And he cannot stop this, he cannot stop this, he cannot stop, he cannot stop…

The next thing he is aware of is Anne's trembling hand smoothing his tousled hair.

'Shhh,' she whispers, 'it's all right. I'm not going anywhere…'

He looks up at her and kisses her lips.

'I know.'

'I'm glad. There was a moment when it sounded like you didn't.'

Gilbert blinks. 'What did I say?'

'You don't remember?'

'I – ah… Anne?'

'Mmm?'

'I'm still inside you –' he says, and jerks back swiftly.

'That's not all,' Anne adds.

She dips into his unbuttoned waistcoat and retrieves his pocket watch.

'It's past midnight. We'll have to face Marilla now.'

When he stands up he starts to feel dizzy, and his limbs feel hollow and light. While Anne refastens her gown he crouches by the water's edge and takes several gulps from the stream.

'Oh I wish I knew what I looked like,' Anne fusses, 'are their any reeds left in my hair?'

'Reeds will be the least of it. We have no excuse, none.'

He sounds cooler than he means to, but then there are so many things on his mind. Anne is quiet on the walk back to Green Gables, and for that he is grateful; it gives him a chance to piece everything together. He can remember exactly what he said now. He held onto Anne as though she was the one thing that could stop him falling, and begged her never to leave him. Why had he said that? It wasn't like him at all. But it's pointless to dwell on this without acknowledging the consequence of what had followed.

He might have given Anne a baby. This was beyond impulsive, this was… Wrong? No, he could never think of a child as wrong. Impractical certainly. Foolhardy, yes. But likely? He considers this momentarily, and reasons no. The chance of Anne becoming pregnant because of a singular, never to be repeated loss of control, is incredibly slim. Practically zero. He will not think on the possibility again. What matters most is finding the right words to say to Mrs Rossi. And if he can't, he knows Anne can.

Not one sound has yet to pass from her lips, and he gives her arm an encouraging squeeze as they pass over the bridge that spans Barry's Pond. Anne does not return it; she leaves his side and picks her way through the dewy grass, then gets down on her knees. For a moment Gilbert thinks she is praying, until he hears a splash of water. They are so close to Green Gables, why would she need a drink right now? And he asks her as much.

'May I have your handkerchief? I need something to dry myself. I'll launder it for you, but I can't go home like this.'

Gilbert realises now she is sluicing her thighs with the cold pond water. He digs into his pocket and tosses it to her, the pink enamel necklace falling on the roadside forgotten and unobserved.

'Of course – here. Is everything all right?'

Anne mops herself and stands abruptly, hands planted on her hips. Only now does it occur to Gilbert that he is not the only one having silent conversations.

'I don't want you to come with me – I don't want you to walk me home.'

If she had poured that pond water over his head he could not have been more shocked.

'Sorry?'

'It's better this way –'

'Better?' he splutters. 'What are your people supposed to think if you turn up alone at one in the morning, with your hair in knots and your dress half green? Everything I've done to prove myself will count for nothing. No, we go together, explain that we lost track of time, offer our apologies and take the consequences.'

'You don't understand. Marilla will know, I know she will –'

'No, you don't understand. I am not leaving your side. When I call you my wife, I mean it.'

'I know you do, but this is different –'

'No, Anne. This is _marriage!_ '

The word echoes over the pond and they stand before each other silenced. Dwarfed too, by the utter enormity of their vows. Coming home late, the leaf matter in his hair, the grass stains on her dress? These things are nothing – nothing – compared to the promise they had made.

Anne is the first to break the silence, and Gilbert is relieved. He had told himself he wouldn't say another word until she spoke.

'You're right,' she says, simply. 'I've been thinking like a child, not a woman.'

She holds out her hand to him, and he can't help recall the day when they met upon this very road and finally made their peace. His heart had been filled with so many feelings, doubts, questions, exhilaration, but all was quietened by a certainty that everything between them would be all right.

He was eighteen then, and didn't know half of what he knows now – and has done things he never dreamed he would do. Yet this certainty has not deserted him. And he will die before he deserts her.

'Come,' he says, and takes her hand. 'I'm going to walk home with you.'

 **…**

* final line from chapter 38, Anne of Green Gables


	26. Chapter 26

_**Chapter twenty-six**_

'So you walked Miss Shirley home. Then what happened?'

Gilbert leans back in his chair in the brightly lit Green Gables kitchen. The clock on the mantle strikes 9 am and he shoots a cold look at his inquisitor.

'When can I see her?' he says, glancing in the direction of the parlour, recalling her wild grey eyes as the door was shut in her face.

Constable Mackerson stifles a yawn. Dr Blair nods off on the sofa. Sergeant Swan sits opposite Gilbert, lovingly stroking his black moustache. He can wait, he can wait till nine this evening, and the following evening after that. The doctor claimed this lad had could have killed Mr Rossi. There is no way he is letting up until every question has been checked off.

He notes Gilbert's long look at the door, then repositions his spotless gloves, one upon the other.

'When you've answered these questions to my liking, Mr Blythe. But if you'd rather continue at the station…'

'I've answered the same questions over and over, from Blair and Mackerson, and now from you. I want to see Anne!'

'Then answer my questions.'

Gilbert slumps. The thought of going over this for what must be the fifth time brings a scream to his throat. It takes a full minute to swallow it down.

He can do this, he can do this, he can do this.

'We returned to Green Gables some time after one am.'

'Is it usual for you to keep a young woman out so late?'

'Usual? No.'

'My constable's notes describe her as,' and Swan places a finger on a line of writing in his notebook, ' _female of dishevelled appearance, grass stains at the knee region, deeply agitated_ –'

'Because Martin Rossi nearly died – when we arrived at Green Gables he was having a stroke!'

'What appeared to be a stroke, Mr Blythe, stick to the facts please. What happened then?'

'It _was_ a stroke. His speech was slurred, his arm was numb, and he couldn't stand up.'

'Once again,' says Swan unmoved, 'what happened then?'

Gilbert screws up his eyes, fighting against the blur in his brain that is making him question his memory. He knows he must relay the events precisely. One mistake, one detail out of place, and he could be arrested. He pictures Marilla Rossi's face when he and Anne returned from the stream last night; her mouth ajar and dark eyes stretched in terror as she knelt over her husband and raked back his thin brown hair.

'There was a light coming from the house,' he says dully. 'We thought it was the porch-light, but as we entered the drive we realised the front door was open. So we ran,' he continues, remembering last winter, Anne's hand in his, the fear in his heart… 'We found Mrs Rossi on the porch bent over her husband. Minutes earlier he had told his wife that he needed some air, then he keeled over by the front door. He was trying to tell us what was wrong, but we couldn't make him out.'

Swan holds out one manicured hand, signalling a halt in proceedings as he jots this down. Dotting every i and crossing every t, keeping Gilbert in that raw and desperate moment.

Gilbert's eyes go to the door again. Anne is on the other side, he is sure of it. He wants to kick it down, he wants to smash the entire wall till his hands are pulp, and sits there helpless, as Swan turns the page in his notebook and calmly motions for Gilbert to continue.

'Anne went to fetch some water to revive Mr Rossi, and when that didn't work she offered to go to Orchard Slope to ask the Barrys to send for the doctor –'

'But she didn't, did she, Mr Blythe?'

Gilbert shakes his head.

'Dr Spencer is summering in Maine. Mrs Rossi was afraid Anne wouldn't reach Dr Blair in time. She asked her to fetch my mother.'

'Your mother? This would be –' and Swan flicks back a number of pages and reads out a name. 'Mrs Rowena Joy Blythe, wife of John Blythe, owner of the farm at 17 Newbridge Road, Avonlea?'

'You know it is. You've spoken to her – and my father,' says Gilbert through gritted teeth.

The sergeant puts down his pen and studies the young man opposite him. He is tall and powerfully built and could easily overpower a fellow like Rossi. Educated too, by the sound of him. Clean shaven, smartly dressed. The lad does not strike Swan as the impulsive type, but then how to explain the missing collar on his shirt or the oak leaf in his hair?

'Tell me, why would Mrs Rossi ask for your mother when her husband was unwell –'

'Unwell? We thought he was dying!'

Swan smiles thinly.

'If that's so, why would she ask for Mrs Blythe – is she a doctor?' he adds, sarcastically.

'She's a herbalist.'

'A herbalist. I see. Snake oil, potions, that kind of thing.'

'My mother has been treating folks on this part of the Island for ten years. She attends their births, treats their burns and wounds, advises them when they can't afford a doctor.'

Swan looks around the neatly furnished kitchen he is sitting in.

'I'm confused, Mr Blythe, it seems to me Mrs Rossi could certainly afford a doctor.'

'Dr Blair lives four miles away. Mrs Rossi believed my mother could help.'

'I wonder then, why you didn't let her?'

'Because my mother might have come too late,' Gilbert explains – though this is only half the reason.

Should he say more? His Ma wouldn't like it, he knows that much, but he also knows she has learned to prefer a painful truth over convenient lies.

Gilbert squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

'I was anxious about whether she could manage with her hand. My mother hasn't treated anyone since it was burned.'

'Yes, the incident with haberdasher's daughter. Very unfortunate. Please continue.'

'Haberdasher's daughter?' Gilbert croaks. 'Mr Morrissey is Margaret's _father?_ '

'I ask the questions,' Swan cuts in, 'and I repeat, _why_ didn't you wait for your mother when it was the express wish of Mrs Rossi that Mrs Blythe treat her husband?'

'Mrs Rossi begged me to.'

' _Begged?_ So in your words her husband was dying, but she didn't want her doctor to treat him, nor the local healer. She wanted the young man who had just endangered Miss Shirley's reputation to the point of ruin,' says Swan, tapping his pen over the phrase, _grass stains_. 'You were a teacher weren't you? And have since completed one year at –' he searches over his notes again, 'Redmond University in Kingsport. Are you studying medicine, Mr Blythe?'

'No, but –'

'Then why would Mrs Rossi trust you with her husband's life?'

'There's a procedure – '

'You mean blood letting.'

'Yes,' Gilbert hisses, just managing not to add, _obviously_.

'And how is it that you became competent in this area of medicine?'

How to explain his mother's book, and the lifetime's worth of wisdom it contained; that this summer he had come to know whole sections of it in the same way he knew his own hand? The answers it held – and the questions; he had begun his own book just to answer those.

Gilbert cannot bear to think of this treasure in the hands of a man like Swan, or the trouble it will cause. Abortifacts, sun rituals, medicine songs, it was all in there. Once Swan reads that he will certainly destroy it for being unlawful and irreligious.

The book must be protected, but that means hiding the truth, and if Swan catches him in a lie Gilbert knows he will be leaving Green Gables in manacles. He sits tall in his chair, forcing himself to picture Mina Pye. If he could brave the censure of an Avonlea Prayer Meeting, he can do this.

'Because it interests me,' he answers calmly.

The black moustache twitches for a moment and the fountain pen rests in his hand. The clock ticks on, ten seconds, twenty, then Swan begins his scribbling again.

'And the Rossis requested this procedure, did they?'

Gilbert nods, thinking back to Mr Rossi now. With the last of his strength he unclenched his fist and drew it like a blade over his arm. "Cuh," he pleaded, "cuh!" before convulsing in pain. By then Anne had fled in the direction of his house, and Marilla looked to Gilbert, her blind eyes flooded with tears. "Help him, Gilbert, please, I beg you, I can't lose Martin too."

Gilbert knew what Martin was trying to say, and prayed his mother might arrive in time to do it. Two things changed his mind, the terror on Marilla Rossi's face and the fear that his mother might get it wrong. She had limited use of her right hand, and could never make the precise incision with her left. If he refused to do this he would be faced with two choices; watch Marilla become widowed, or risk his mother being the cause of it.

'I had my pocket knife with me,' says Gilbert mechanically. Swan scribbles this detail down. 'So I pulled back the sleeve of Mr Rossi's nightshirt and punctured the vein until a spout of blood appeared… it shot into the geraniums,' he adds, needlessly. 'In less than a minute the pain stopped, and Martin's purple face went pale. I continued to bleed him a little longer until he fell into a faint, then I asked Mrs Rossi for something to bind his arm. She was dressed in her nightgown and pulled at the ruff at the bottom till it came away. I dressed the wound as best I could. Soon after my mother arrived with Miss Shirley. My father went for Doctor Blair, who turned up some time around three. When the doctor learned what I had done he sent for the constable. He reached Green Gables at dawn, and after questioning Anne he sent for you. That's all I can tell you, sir, that's all I remember.'

His voice fades and his head droops, but it snaps to attention when Swan slams his book shut.

'Very well,' he says at last. 'You're free to go.'

'That's it?' says Gilbert, wearily.

'Your recollection follows Mrs Rossis', Miss Shirley's, and your mother's in every particular. But I had to be sure, especially when there was motive.'

'Motive? What motive?'

'You say you brought Miss Shirley home at one in the morning? Lets say an argument ensues. You admitted yourself you were carrying a knife. There is nothing to say an altercation hadn't taken place –'

'Dr Blair believed that?'

'No, that was my constable's contention. Blair sent for him because he did not think you had the right to perform such a medical procedure. But there is no law against a little blood letting – not if the patient survives. You saved a man's life tonight, Mr Blythe,' says Swan, stroking his moustache once more. 'Let's hope you don't do it again.'

…

He couldn't say whose arms are round him next. His father nearly squeezed him in two, but it is Mrs Rossi who holds him longest. His mother is upstairs with Martin. And Anne? She stands by the grandfather clock, her arms wrapped round herself. Her rosebud gown is gone, and her hair has been worked into two tight braids. One of them is still untied and when Marilla finally lets Gilbert go, he goes to Anne and takes the end in his trembling fingers.

'I couldn't stop braiding it, over and over, I wanted to break down the door…'

They stand in stillness at the parlour window, sunlight streaming through. After what feels like an hour but could only be a minute, he feels Marilla's hand on his shoulder.

'Martin is asking for you.'

He feels horribly lightheaded in the hallway, and almost passes out on the stairs.

'It's shock, it's simply the shock,' says his mother and leads him into Anne's room.

'I'll be fine in a moment,' he tells her, then his head hits Anne's pillow, and her smell fills his nostrils, and the touch of her hand falls softly on his head.

She plucks the stray leaf from his hair, and tucks it into a box on her table.

'A heart of oak,' is the last thing he remembers hearing.

…

Gilbert wakes twelve hours later, wracked with thirst. It is close and humid in this boxy upstairs room, though most of his discomfort is due to the hot little body nestled next to him. There is a jug of water on the wash stand, and he brings it to his mouth and swallows down every drop. Soon after he needs to relieve himself, but rather than use Anne's pot he tiptoes into the hall and seeks out the washroom.

As he passes the master bedroom he hears quiet snoring, the contented peace-filled kind that brought him so much comfort when he was a child. A soft snuffling inward breath – that would be Marilla – and a glottal exhalation from her husband. They are breathing in time with each other, to hear it makes Gilbert smile.

When he returns to Anne's bedroom he is unsure if he should enter. From the look of the blanket-strewn rocker, she had been sleeping there earlier, but sometime in the night she had slipped in beside him. He unbuttons his shirt and removes his trousers, then sits in the rocker and looks about her room. He can't see much; there is the merest sliver of moon in the sky, and by it's watery light he can make out a few dark shapes. The dressmaker's dummy where she made up her rosebud gown, a forbidding looking closet, and on the table by his chair, a cedar box, and two samplers bearing the words, Mother and Father.

He picks up the latter and studies it, then carefully puts it back into place, before realising it is not a linen doily beneath it, but a thin sheaf of paper. On the topmost page he can recognise a rough sketch depicting the heart shaped petals of primula villosa, but instead of a stamen at its centre the flower bears a face, gnome-like and coarse. He sees now it isn't botanical notes she has scrawled around the drawing, but character-traits and backstory notes, and strangest of all a recipe for a depilatory cream. So these are the secret musings of Anne Shirley? Will he ever work her out?

He returns the pages beneath the sampler once more, an unexpected smile on his face, as he gazes at the mysterious girl sleeping in her white painted bed. It doesn't take long for him to creep in next to her. Her nightdress damp with the heat of her skin.

'So hot,' she mutters, crossly, and pulls at her collar, revealing the square of Pegasus on her shoulder. Instinctively Gilbert kisses it, then brings his lips to the dewy curls at her nape.

'I thought you were asleep,' she whispers.

'We are asleep,' he says.

'Then I must be having my favourite dream…'

She peels her nightdress from her body and his hands roam all over her soft bare skin. The bed creaks as he pulls his shirt from his torso, and he presses his broad chest into her back, cupping her breasts in his hands. Her nipples harden against his palms, and when he squeezes them gently, she arches her back and grinds her bottom into him.

His underpants are twisted and tight and he yanks at them until he is freed. No sooner has he done this when Anne clamps him between her thighs, tensing and pulsing her muscles around his length. The sensation is maddening, not least because they are so close. She need only shift her leg an inch... Then she does, such a little movement, but a conscious one. And he thrusts inside her with such desperation, her hips fly forward with the force of it.

He tightens his arms around her, jaw clamped against her shoulder, as though he is expecting to lose her at any moment. And she braces against him, knuckles white, till he truly believes she isn't going anywhere. Then all at once everything slows, except his heart, which hammers against her sweat-sheened back. His throat aches with an unreleased sob, his eyes are brimming, and he blinks against it, though he knows it's a lost cause.

When he moves again, he moves with her, and it's as simple, as essential as breathing. For the first time it isn't pleasure that overwhelms him, but love. She is safe, she is home, she is his harbour. She is comfort and solace and peace.

'I love you, Anne, I can't tell you how much…'

'Sweet husband, I love you too…'

At the sound of her words he quivers and shakes, and thrusts deeper into her body. When it's over and he softens, it isn't the warm trickle on her thighs she notices, but his tears cooling in the curve of her neck.

'Stay,' she murmurs, 'stay inside me, don't leave.'

But Gilbert is already sleeping.

 **…**

 _* Martin suffered a type of mild stroke. While it usually has no lasting effects it can be a warning of more attacks to come – though I have NO intention of killing off dear Mr Rossi. Bloodletting was common practice in Victorian times, and for thousands of years before that. It originated with the theory that the body is based around the four humours, and that illness occurs when they are out of balance. By releasing a good amount of blood you reduce the effects of the 'blood humour' thereby restoring balance to the body. In Victorian times anecdotal evidence suggested bloodletting could reduce high blood pressure, blockages in the veins and arteries, and gangrene. However, many used it as a catch all treatment for everything from allergies to flu. As this is a fictional story I based my account on an event in one of my favourite novels, The Harp of the South by Ruth Park._


	27. Chapter 27

_**Chapter twenty-seven**_

After all that sleep, Gilbert is up before most of the inhabitants of Green Gables – but not all. When he enters the kitchen an hour before dawn he finds the water in the kettle has been recently boiled and and there are fresh coffee grounds in the grinder.

Knowing Mrs Rossi depends on every object in her home being in it's place he takes extra care to put things back where he found them, even going to the trouble of drying the teaspoon and setting it back in its drawer.

He sits for a moment at the kitchen table, but the tick of the clock reminds him of Swan, and he heads out to the front porch. Here he finds Martin, steaming mug in his hand, sitting on the porch step, watching the sunrise.

'I didn't expect to see you up,' says Gilbert warmly.

He takes the step lower than Martin's and gives him a polite nod.

'Nor you,' says Martin. 'Marilla said they questioned you all night.'

'And part of the morning,' Gilbert adds.

He keeps his voice light, as if he expects Martin to start blubbing at any moment, and is pleasantly surprised when the man makes a joke.

'Who'da guessed I was so important, the things you learn when you find yourself on death's door.'

He winks then, expecting Gilbert to respond with the usual slap him on the back. Then they can get on with a proper conversation; the peculiar humidity, or the two pound hailstones that fell in Dubuque. To his surprise Gilbert finds himself responding with:

'Were you really on death's door, Mr Rossi?'

Martin's triangular eyes widen to something trapezoidal, and he rubs his whiskery chin.

'You wanna know if I saw the pearly gates, or the light at the end of the tunnel?'

The latter part of Martin's question makes the hair on Gilbert's head stand up even more than it is, and he takes a deep slurp of coffee.

'I don't mean to pry, it's just it's easy to feel you've done the right thing when everything turns out right. It would ease my mind if – '

'You knew for a _fact_ you had done the right thing?' Martin finishes, quietly. 'Yes Gil, you did right. I knew what was comin', had all the warnin' signs. I shoulda stopped and rested awhile, but Marilla –'

He coughs, leaving Gilbert to ponder why Martin needed to stop and rest at one o'clock in the morning. He doesn't ponder long, he had heard enough of his parents' squeaking bedsprings to make an intelligent guess. Still it amazes him to think of Marilla and Martin...

The older man coughs again, as if to interrupt the lad's thoughts.

'Last time I took a turn it was my Dora that saved me. Only she had to make do with her 'broidery scissors.'

'I had no idea Dora knew how to do something like that.'

'She didn't. The barber in Carmody lived across the road from us and she dragged him from his dinner when I started turnin' puce. He wouldn't help me, he knew I couldn't pay, but Dora promised to sweep his store for a month every evening if he showed her what to do. I shall never forget it, slumped on my hands and knees, tryin' to keep from passin' out while my daughter bartered for my life. She was only thirteen. I miss her somethin' terrible, but Soren is a good man.'

'He is.'

'You're a good man too.'

Gilbert flushes; thinks of the girl upstairs.

'I don't know about that.'

'That's just what a good man would say. My own boy would be preenin' like rooster, right now. Not that he's not brave, but he likes the world to know it. I wished we coulda talked after the ruckus last Christmas, Gil, but what with one thing and another... I just want you to know, you're not the first to be goaded into takin' a swing at Davy... Only you're not his – not his – f-fa-ther...'

Gilbert knew it. Martin Rossi is going to cry. He seeks out his handkerchief then remembers he gave it to Anne.

'I coulda died last night and my boy wouldn't a-been any the wiser.'

'There, there, Mr Rossi, he'll turn up. He always does.'

The neatly swept yard reverberates with a good honk from Martin's nose into a crisply starched handkerchief.

'I dunno,' he laments, crushing it into his pocket. 'Why couldn't I have had a good son, like you?'

On the walk home Gilbert puzzles over Martin's question. What makes a man good? Davy had all the trappings of goodness; he risked his life over and over for others, gave up his reward for his folks, kept his word and proposed to Ruby Gillis, and undid it all by running away.

Is it staying, facing up to the mess you made, did that make a man good? But then what of Fred, who left the farm and his family after he humiliated himself for Diana? What of his own father, who went west when his daughter died, taking his small son with him?

If Gilbert measures himself against those men, how would he do? Badly, that much is certain. If any other fellow did what he was doing he would call it wrong without compunction. So then why doesn't he feel wrong? He always believed making love to Anne could only put her in harms way. Yet last night he knew - and she did too - that nothing else could quieten their hearts and make them feel safe.

The tender feeling in his breast has no chance to linger, however. When he arrives home he finds Adam, his son Hal, and Uncle George, tucking into a fried breakfast in the kitchen.

'Gil.'

'Gil.'

'Gil,' they say with full mouths; each of them nodding their head in that, "we know all about Rossi and Swan, no need to say any more" sort of way.

'Set yourself down,' says his mother, brightly, 'how many eggs do you want?'

Hal gives Gilbert a slap on the back, George and Adam resume talking.

'It's that Dorper ram, we get him dipped and the rest of the herd will follow.'

'Well I ain't dippin' him,' Hal chimes in. 'That Grievous! He already blacked Claude's ribs, and took a chunk outta my finger,' he says, holding up his bandaged hand.

'You up for it, Gil my boy?' says George, his thick lips shining with egg yolk.

''Course he is,' John asserts, striding into the kitchen, a pair of smelly waders in his hands. 'Well tuck in, son, get it down quick, we're heading off at seven.'

The day's work is exactly what Gilbert needs; his mind and body completely absorbed in the task at hand. And so it is for the other men, each doing his part according to his skill. No one minds that Hal lacks the upper body strength to stop a two hundred pound ewe, so long as he uses his long skinny legs to head up the strays in the bracken. Everyone cheers when Adam flings himself at Grievous, and mocks him when he falls into a pile of droppings, but they also look the other way when he miscounts the yearlings. Numbers have never been Adam's strong suit, but there is John for that, and George to write it all up in each man's ledger.

Gilbert spends most of the day waist deep in a cut ditch. It is the job no one wants, the water quickly becomes putrid and the Cooper's Dip reeks. But what irks most is the rubberized overall. A body gets so hot in them all he wants is to strip down to his altogethers, and that means a lot of sweating and chaffing, especially round fellow's nether regions. Gilbert takes the job willingly, however, he couldn't have said why exactly, but somehow the heroics of last night lie uncomfortably on him. He doesn't want to be set apart, he wants to be part of the team, and taking on the lowliest task is a way to show he did not, nor would he ever, think too much of himself.

The others seem to understand, and do their utmost to make the hours he spends in the water as long, sticky and arduous as possible. But when they talk on where to take supper that night and unanimously choose Barry's pond, it says all that needs to be said about their fulsome appreciation of him. At least that's what they mean when they say Gil stinks so bad _he_ needs a dip!

The five men trudge pond-side and wordlessly begin their tasks. John reads the wind in order to find the best place to set up. Hal sprawls on the bank and starts feeling about for bait-fish or frogs. George unpacks the baskets and begins grinding up the beans. Adam finds a cool shallow spot to chill Granny Giraud's root beer. And Gil makes the fire. Gil always makes the fire.

When the fish are caught George sets about cleaning them, which means the rest of the party can finally jump into the pond. The men all take their turns giving Gilbert several dunks. Of course Hal can't help pushing things, which inevitably brings the weight of John, Adam and Gilbert down on him. The younger boy spends a good amount of time hacking up water into the reeds, but a quick ruffle of his hair tells him a truce in now in place.

After half an hour of larking about, the older men haul their heavy, wet bodies onto the bank. Water runs off their flanks in rivulets as they lie back in the grass, and clings to their chest hair like little glass beads. The smell of baked trout is thick in the air, and they suck it in hungrily and listen to fish-juice sizzle in the flames.

Then Adam does what he always does, which is spread his tree trunk thighs wide open to let the last rays of the sun dry him off. He might scoff at his mother-in-law's witchy ways, but he can't see the harm in following her advice. She swears a man's seed withers in the cold. And while Celie had produced four strong boys, he wouldn't mind another one or two – should Providence bless them with such.

'Laws, I can't abide it when Papa does that,' Hal mutters.

'Seems like George can't either,' Gilbert laughs. 'Look, he dropped his cap on him.'

Hal wipes the water from his eyes and peers back in his father's direction.

'That's not _his_ cap – it's mine! Hey Mr Fletcher, cut that out!'

After supper John and Adam's pipes come out, and Hal starts in with a voyageur song. It's one of Fred's favourites. Their Mama likes to say Fred has the exact build of her people, short in leg and broad of chest, just right for a man who braved the rapids in his canoe. Hal sings it in French, of course. But even George knows enough to respond to Hal's call...

 _En roulant, ma boule roulant!_

 _En roulant, ma boule!_

Soon after he digs about for his harmonica; if they're going to sing in French he would much rather play, and leads Hal into another tune.

The boy clears his throat, hums a little to find the key and smiles at his father. _A la Claire Fontaine_ , is Adam's favourite.

'Ah, that takes me back,' he says, when the last line is sung. 'The White Sands recital of '64. My darlin' Celie. Cecilia Hubert, she was then,' he says, pronouncing the t. 'Voice like an angel, in a sky blue dress and...'

' – ribbons in her hair,' George cuts in. 'Yes Adam, we've all heard the story of how Celie cast a spell you.'

'Hah!' Adam barks. 'Says the man who almost burned down his farm when Freda passed on.'

'Is that true, Uncle?' Gilbert cuts in.

If he sounds surprised it's because he is. His Ma always says George likes to pretend Aunt Freda never existed; when he remarried so quickly, renamed their farm.

'Nothing mattered to me for a time after that,' George remarks, candidly. 'We all deal with grief in our own way, you know.'

As he says this he looks squarely at John, who meets his gaze unblinking. Gilbert was aware that his father and his uncle had never been close, but everyone around the fire knew then, some hatchet had just been buried.

It's all getting a bit much for Hal, however.

'That's the trouble with gettin' old,' he says, in an emboldened sort of way that makes Adam reconsider his rule that seventeen is too old for a switching. 'A man gets sentimental and soft. When I take a wife, I won't care what she looks like so long as she's a hard worker. None of this 'spell' nonsense for me.'

He looks around the faces, red and orange with the fire, nervously seeking out nods of approval. What he gets is a lot of guffaws.

'Sounds like someone turned you down, Hal Wright – '

'I wasn't thinkin' of me,' Hal splutters. 'I was thinkin' of – of... Fred!'

'Sure you were,' says his father, winking.

'Wantin' a wife who ain't got the power to break you, is like wantin' water that ain't wet,' John says. 'There's no such thing, and if there was, what would be the point?'

'I don't want my wife to break me,' says Hal sulkily.

'It's not that you _want_ her too,' Gilbert joins in. 'It's knowing she could, and doesn't. That no matter how many times you fall, she'll stand by you, she'll stay with you. That's how you know,' he continues, more to the fire than himself, 'that nothing that can keep you apart...'

'Well you can't be talkin' about Anne then. She broke that slate over your head!'

Hal, George and Adam start guffawing once more. But John holds his tongue. Gilbert is talking like a married man, and that's not good. An engagement was one thing, an engagement means Anne is off the market. Gilbert will only work harder if he can be sure of that. But marriage? There is no way his son is ready for such a burden.

John keeps his own counsel for the rest of the night, not that his silence is remarkable, he worked a brutal twelve hour day and was getting on sixty. But like his son, he has a habit of having conversations in his head, and by the time they get back to the farm he has reasoned himself into a position that no matter what Gilbert says he will not be able to wriggle out of. A simple no, will do it. Any prevarication and John will have his answer.

They stand outside the cottage door, Gilbert is about to head inside when John says:

'You bedded her, didn't you, that's why you got her home so late? You bedded Anne Shirley.'

You can imagine the look on Gilbert's face. He's been caught out good and proper. Here too, right outside the house where he and Anne spent their first night together. Even if he managed a believable no (which he didn't) John isn't stupid.

'Good God, you _did!_ '

'That's none of your business.'

'It will be if you get her pregnant. Who'd take her in? Who'd pay for the child?'

' _I_ would. I love Anne like my wife!'

Spoken like every romantic sop who can't keep his trousers on. How on earth had he managed to raise a son like this? John groans loudly, and shakes his head.

'You think you deserve to be her husband? Do you have any idea what that means? It has nothing to do with getting in a girl's drawers, Gilbert. It's about putting in the work to make sure you can take care of her for the rest of her life. And not just her, but your children. God forbid you die tomorrow, but what if you did? What can you give her? What would she live on? How can you be so smart and not know this? I should never have listened to Marilla –'

'You spoke about this with Marilla Rossi?'

'I told her folks were talkin' about the two of you, but the stubborn woman refused to listen. Said the same folks gossiped over her and Martin; that the rumours were unfounded then, and are just as unfounded now.'

Mrs Rossi also said it was listening to rumours that caused her to quarrel with John all those years ago. It was the closest Marilla had come to an apology, and it melted John's resolve. He submitted to her insistence that Anne was too ambitious to settle, that Gilbert was a gentleman. Why the hell had he been so soft? It was softness that let Margaret into their home. It was softness that made him leave Green Gables last night, with their son sleeping in Anne Shirley's bed! No more softness, _none_. It is a woman's role to be soft, and a man's to overrule it.

'There's only one thing for this. You're going to Uncle David's on the next available train.'

'You can't make me do that, I'm twenty years old!'

'You are not whiling away the rest of the summer under the spell of Anne Shirley.'

'I'm not going anywhere. I have my work, Ma needs me – '

'You dare bring your mother into this? She saved all that money for you to go to college, so that you'd have a chance at better life. And you're throwing it away. Your Ma and I were so proud of you yesterday, but now... I don't understand you.'

'No, you _don't_ understand,' Gilbert counters, 'I love Anne with all that I am.'

'If that's so,' John says, walking away, 'you know the right thing to do.'

 **...**

 _* the two pound hailstones was a true story!_

 _* Coopers Dip was the first patented sheep dip (used to kill parasites)_

 _* en roulant, ma boule roulant is a traditional call and response song popular with French-Canadians_


	28. Chapter 28

**_Chapter twenty-eight_**

This is how wars start, why Troy was sacked, and Tybalt and Paris were slain. John Blythe might not be the best read, but surely even he knows that when it comes to true love, a man should never get in another man's way.

He had no right, his father had no right, yet he called it the right thing to do. Well, Gilbert knows what is right. He stayed with Anne when she was ill, and nursed the girl in Kingsport. He went to Fred when he needed him, and rekindled his friendship with Davy – he even kept his fists in his pocket when he discovered his betrayal. He worked hard, all hours, day and night, to help his neighbours, and did the work his mother could not. He withstood hours of interrogation and saved the life of Martin Rossi.

That night Gilbert lies in bed, his body twisting in the sheets, his mind twisting with the bitter recollection of his father's disappointment. Bed her? He didn't _bed_ her. He LOVES her. There is a world a difference between those two acts, and his father had sullied their secret world with his ugly, small-minded assumptions.

He wakes just before dawn feeling panicked and furious and marches up to the house. His one small hope is that his father kept his discovery to himself. Inside he can hear pots and pans being crashed about in the kitchen. So, Pa had said something, it was as bad as that. The anger inside Gilbert ignites. _Right?_ What right did his father have, telling Ma, and adding to her troubles? And now he wants to make it worse by sending him away? Well, it's not going to happen, that much is certain, and arming himself with this new resolve Gilbert strides into the kitchen.

His father is not there, and his mother has not noticed him. There is an old stone sink in the far corner of the room and she drops a pot lid into it, then looks hard at May who sits upon the floor.

'Morning Mayflower,' Gilbert says, glad to have the wee girl between them.

She is chewing the wooden rattle John made, and a long line of drool like a spider's web connects her rosy lips to the toy.

'Wait!' Ro barks. 'Watch!' and drops an iron ladle in the sink.

A clanging metallic sound fills the room; little May keeps chewing.

The furious heat inside Gilbert dissolves, and a cold, sinking feeling takes its place. His mother starts shaking all over.

'She can't hear –'

'No Ma – of course she can, try again, I distracted her, that's all.'

Even as he says it, he doesn't believe it; May never looked up when he entered the room. He bends down and scoops her up, eyes seeking something, anything, that might be blocking her little ears. But they are pink and clear and perfect. It can't be true, it can't be…

Ro lifts the baby from Gilbert's arms and presses her to her bosom.

'I always assumed she was a deep sleeper – contented – absorbed in her play – all this time she couldn't hear – oh Gilbert, how could I miss this?'

For the next hour his mother says little else, her face blanched with a terrible guilt as she rocks the wee girl in her arms.

'I'm supposed to be a healer, I'm supposed to know these things, how could I have missed this, _how!_ '

At first, Gilbert focused on trying to find any evidence his mother was mistaken: whispering, squeaking, making low dull tones. Little May was oblivious. It occurs to him that he had missed this too, but while this realisation smarts, he knows it is nothing to what his mother will be feeling. She had never truly forgiven herself for looking away while Lottie drowned, and he knew, as did everyone, that May took some of the sting from that grief. To have cared for her for two months and never noticed till now. It is as if her stitched-together heart has been torn open again.

'It might not be permanent, Ma, perhaps there's something we can do. A cure, a remedy, in your book, or in mine, there must be something, surely.'

Ro can only shake her head, her face white to the lips.

'There's only one thing that can help now. May needs a doctor.'

…

'A doctor? Your mother hates doctors.'

Gilbert joins Anne on the stone back step of Green Gables, and rubs his hands together.

'I know. It's hit her hard. First her hand. Now this. I'm starting to think she will never go back to her work.'

'You're _starting_ to think?' Anne eyes him skeptically. 'It must have occurred to you before now. The whole village is talking about it, how when you go back to Redmond the stone cottage will close forever.'

'I don't care about that!' Gilbert snaps.

What he means is that he doesn't want to talk about it – of course he cares, Anne could not love him and not know that. The hours he spent working on remedies, the notes he made, the studies. Herbalism has taken hold of him this summer, but he still believes it is a seasonal thing, that when September comes it will be over. What matters, what hurts his heart, is how to help May and his mother.

Anne takes his hand and opens it, gently kissing his palm.

'So what are you going to do?'

'Ma can't bring herself to call on Blair, she wants to take May to my uncle.'

'The one in New Brunswick or the one in the Glen, which one is the doctor?'

'The one in the Glen. David Blythe. He wrote to me recently, invited me to stay.'

'You never said –'

'I had no intention of going, but now…'

Gilbert breaks off and withdraws his hand. Anne stands, and after peering into the Green Gables kitchen, pulls the back door shut.

Presently she sits, a little closer than before, and whispers:

'There's something you're not telling me, I know there is.'

Gilbert folds his arms and stares straight ahead.

'I love you, Anne, you know I do. But this concerns the Blythes.'

'Am I not a Blythe?' Anne says to him. 'Did you not say to me three days ago that whatever I faced you would face with me, because we are married now?'

'This is –'

 _'Different?_ You think my loyalty to Marilla is less than yours is for your mother and father?'

'No – I don't know,' he shrugs, impatiently. 'I don't have the words right now... '

The step they share has suddenly become too small and he strides away past the water butt and into the small orchard behind the house. Anne follows, as he hoped she would, and he halts by a flowering pear.

A memory comes to him, unexpected, sentimental; a time when he and Anne were in the Rossi's caravan last year. There were logs of pear wood next to the stove and Gilbert made a soppy vow to himself that when he and Anne had a home of their own they would only heat it with logs like these. When they burn they smell of wild flowers.

Anne moves between the rows, blossoms catching in her hair. She is beautiful, every part of her; how can he explain himself, what will she think…

'Gilbert, what is it? Don't you trust me to understand?'

He flinches under her gaze. It would be so easy to keep walking; gather his thoughts, make a plan, see it through. One step after another, the way he has always done. If he does, he knows she will forgive him. But it isn't forgiveness he needs. No, it's not that he doesn't need it. Gilbert believes he doesn't deserve it.

'It's not you I don't trust,' he says, hanging his head, 'it's me. My father knows, Anne. He knows about us, about everything. He wants to send me away, to stay with my uncle for the remainder of the summer. This morning it was all I could think of. But now...'

He lifts his chin. He will meet her gaze when he says this, his wife deserves that at least.

'I'm so ashamed. I love my mother, and she was dealt a terrible blow and I let her dote on May so I could work on what I wanted. We should have worked together, I should have _made_ her work with me. But it was all too easy, too convenient to have her focused on something else. She blames herself for not noticing May's hearing loss sooner, and the thing is Anne, I blame her too. I'm afraid that night Margaret attacked her, she took something else as well. The woman Ma used to be could never have missed such a thing. Of course she has excuses. But me? I have none. I missed it, I missed all of it, because I was too consumed –'

'With me?'

'You see, I told you I didn't have the right words to explain.'

'No, I understand you perfectly. And I love you so much it hurts.'

He did not know until that moment how rigidly he stood, how his muscles had all turned to bone, and his bones to rods of steel. Then Anne showed she understood him, and he could not stay up any longer. His head found her chest and her heart and its beat, and her love seemed to pump right through him.

It beats a little faster than usual, but then she is reeling with the discovery. Mr Blythe knows, perhaps Mrs Blythe too. What will they say when she sees them?

No matter, she is part of the family now, whether they like it or not. It is not too late to make things right. And Anne is every bit as clever and determined as their son.

…

On the first day of July our two lovers stand together at Bright River Station. John is sitting in the buggy, puffing on his pipe. Ro is sitting in the waiting room, taking one last hug from May.

'This doesn't seem real,' Gilbert murmurs, taking Anne's hand in his. 'I was sure if anyone left Avonlea this summer, it would be you. I never dreamed I would willingly leave your side. I don't even know when I'm coming back.'

'Don't think about that. Think about May, are you sure you know what to do?'

'So long as it relies on goat's milk and cloth napkins I think we'll be all right. It's only seventy miles to the Glen; hopefully May will sleep. And if she doesn't, well how hard can it be? Martin raised twins – you did too, as I recall.'

Anne grimaces. 'I will gladly take on any burden, but I do hope I have had my share of twins.'

As she says this a great warm wind gushes over the platform and almost sends Gilbert's hat flying. Usually this would annoy him, but right now he is thankful. He knows the colour of his cheeks would have betrayed him. He had been careless, not once but twice, and wonders if the carnelian ring will be returned to her finger in time for the full moon. He doesn't have a chance to wonder long, however. Steam shoots from the chuffing engine, and his mother appears with May in her arms.

'Don't let David give her any opium drafts.'

'No Ma.'

'And no strange contraptions either, to straighten her spine, or help with her breathing.'

'No Ma.'

'And no other colleagues poking at her. Only the ear specialist, do you hear?'

'Yes Ma.'

She passes the baby to her son, tears spilling down her face.

'Little girl, how I'll miss you…'

'I'll be with you, Mrs Blythe,' Anne says.

Ro Blythe sniffs in a prickly manner that Anne is well used to.

'You may linger at my side all you like, Miss Shirley. I'm not going anywhere near the cottage.'

'Ho hum,' Anne mutters and winks at Gilbert, who is fighting May for his hat this time.

Ro gives him a hug then nods at Anne briefly, signalling her retreat. Tears fill Anne's eyes now, and Gilbert pats the pocket of his jacket.

Where is it? He always keeps one there. Oh yes! He buried it in his trouser pocket on the day of the eclipse.

'I've got something for you,' he says, softly, pulling out his handkerchief. 'Open it.'

Anne does so, and finds nothing but a clean square of Irish lawn.

The heart pendant! Where has it gone? He is sure he kept it there. This is the perfect time to give it to her, and suddenly it has vanished.

'Are – are you giving me this handkerchief, is that what you mean?' Anne asks, dabbing at her cheeks.

At that moment John appears – at his wife's insistence, of course – as the conductor blasts his whistle, right by Gilbert's ear.

'Here, hold this,' says Gilbert, and thrusts May into his father's hands, before placing his on either side of Anne's dear face.

'I'm giving you this,' he declares, and then in front of everyone presses his lips upon hers.

The mix of heat and tenderness almost brings Anne to her knees; the soft groan when he releases her saying all he cannot say.

John stands there, mouth agog, the conductor has gone violet, and little May gurgles with glee. Gilbert salutes those two men, and clasping May to his hip, jumps into the carriage.

'I love you Anne Shirley! I love you!' he says, as the engine pulls him away.

'The impudence!' says the conductor.

'The scamp!' John grumbles.

'That boy!' Ro utters.

'Oh Blythe!' Anne grins.


	29. Chapter 29

**_Chapter twenty-nine_**

The good news is that Anne finds the heart pendant just a few days later, the bad news is it is threaded around a black velvet ribbon that is circling Ruby's neck.

Of course, Anne had no idea it had been intended for her, though she can't help mention in her letter to Gilbert that it is not the sort of keepsake Davy usually sends. Davy Rossi wraps his gifts in layers of meaning as well as paper, ensuring the recipient spends long hours pondering exactly what he means. He does like a girl to believe he is in love with her – even if he is never prepared to say it.

He as good as said it to Ruby however. The sweet pink heart declared it to the world, and if the world didn't catch on quickly enough, Ruby is more than happy to nudge it along by making sure every garment she wears shows off his token to best effect. Within the week all the young girls of Avonlea take to wearing collarless dresses and velvet ribbons. Anyone older than eighteen however, looks on the craze with a skeptical eye. Ruby might insist Davy is privateering on the China Sea, no one else can prove otherwise. But this cheap trinket is no diamond the size of a hazelnut, it isn't even a thin gold band. Yet the last of the unmarried Gillis girls is now calling herself young Mrs Rossi.

What 'old' Mrs Rossi thinks about this no one is prepared to say, not Mina Pye, or even Rachel Lynde.

 _Ruby tried calling her Mother Rossi this afternoon,_ Anne wrote to Gilbert that evening. _Every eye of the sewing circle dropped and every ear opened as they waited to hear what would happen. But rather than reject it outright, Marilla suggested Ruby call her by her Christian name instead. Well,_ _I may be sentimental enough to believe the heart pendant is a marriage token, but Marilla?_

 _I suppose she is a little addle-headed at the moment. Martin suddenly announced he wants to go to Trintorp to meet Dora's new family. He was reading the Echo to Marilla on Monday (to think just a year ago he couldn't read at all!) and was very taken by a story about a new steamer that can cross the Atlantic in as little as nine days._

 _Oh, that there was a way that could get me to you in as little as nine seconds..._

Thereafter Anne described exactly what she would do once she reached her destination.

Gilbert had foolishly opened Anne's letter in the breakfast room, in the presence of his Aunt Jen and little May, and uses the excuse of choking on his coffee to dash back up to his room. But he soon feels the lack of privacy here too, as Jen's Great Aunt Rhodaline stares down at him from the gilded frame of her portrait.

Turning his back to her he attempts another adjustment. Today is his seventh day without Anne and he is seriously considering keeping a hat with him at all times to disguise the unpredictable rises in his trousers. He stuffs Anne's letter in his pocket and opens the tall sash window. His bedroom faces south and a coppice of oak and birch, that keeps the eight fireplaces at Acacia House burning. Beyond the trees a steep hill rises, matched by another on the other side of the St Mary river.

Gilbert closes his eyes and breathes in the sweet smell of dew emanating from the shadowy valley, then scaling the window sill leaps twelve feet to the ground. The coppice isn't as thick as he thought, and he climbs the hill, working his muscles harder and harder till the ache he feels in his thighs outstrips the one throbbing between them.

He is almost halfway up the hill before his lungs beg him to stop, and spying a flattish glade about the size of Saul Gillaley's bed, he sprawls on his back on the fresh, wet grass and opens Anne's letter again. Not long after he is unbuttoning his trousers, brow crumpling, fingers shaking he's that desperate for release, when to his horror he hears someone giggling behind a tall white ash.

Gilbert scrambles up quickly and catches sight of a woman's red bonnet disappearing into the woods. His first instinct is to run after her – to do what, exactly? – then he slumps down onto the grass and buttons himself up. Soon after he notices a small sort of path, a trail really, leading further up the hill. At dinner last night his uncle had said this hill lead nowhere. The hill on the other side of the river lead to Lowbridge; the river itself lead to Harbour Head, and further to Four Winds Point. But there was nothing beyond the grand old neighbourhood of Upper Glen where Acacia House stood – _nothing of note, that is_.

When Gilbert heard this on his first evening, he took his uncle at his word. He found David Blythe to be a hale yet willowy fellow, if not exactly jolly then learned and likeable. The man prided himself on his fine library, his well lit study and the antechamber attached to it, known in the Glen as the Laboratory. He took so much time showing his nephew these three rooms, there was no chance to investigate the rest of the house; dinner was about to be served after all, and a gentleman _must_ get changed. Gilbert was thankful his mother insisted he pack his dress coat and bow tie along with his beloved old quilt, and suitably attired he dashed down the stairs – though the banister was tempting – to seek out May and his Aunt. She had whisked the child from his arms the moment they first arrived, and informed him over the soup course that the dear sweet child was sleeping. This presented Gilbert with a perfect opportunity to talk about May's deafness, when David swiftly cut him off. Learned and likeable he might be, but he was also used to getting his way: from deciding on every topic discussed at dinner, to his rooms being situated on the sunniest part of the house.

That detail wasn't discovered until the following day, when Gilbert, sitting in the murk of the breakfast room with Jen and May, was summoned to David's study. The sunlight and warmth he found there lit up something inside him and he spent the rest of the day at David's desk or the lab or the library, enraptured with all that he found. It was the first time Gilbert had every book and piece of equipment at his fingertips, and if it wasn't, there was the maid to fetch it and bring it to him on a tray. All the while David sat at Gilbert's elbow, egging him on, or smiling benignly.

On the third day David only had the morning to devote to his young nephew, leaving promptly for his rounds at a quarter past eleven. Again Gilbert enjoyed the sun streaming over the pages of each book, as he lost himself in John Tyndall's essay on capnometry, and Mary Treat's Chapters on Ants. He found another of hers, Injurious Insects of Farm and Field, and read it till late in the afternoon. His father would have been appalled to find Gilbert hadn't stirred from the house all day, but when David returned punctually at five, he was sincerely delighted. He then informed the maid to extend the four seater table and add four more chairs. Two gentleman were dining with them that evening; the third and fourth chair, Gilbert discovered, were because David liked everything balanced and neat.

That night his uncle was gratified to find that Gilbert could easily hold his own, thanks to the hours he spent in the library. There was none of the herb talk of the night before, or questions about the infant girl's ears, and Mr Eggers and Dr Lambert were suitably impressed. The next day it was back to the library and so it was for the rest of the week. Then Anne's letter arrived, and Gilbert's composure disappeared like the mist that hugged the hill each morning.

He folds her letter and returns it to his pocket, head cocked as he studies the trail disappearing past the ash and further up the hill. He can't go up there now, not when there's a chance of bumping into the woman in the strange red bonnet – especially when she saw him with his trousers round his knees. Then again, there is no reason to suspect she lives up here. It is far more likely she was picking berries or seeking out her livestock. His uncle said there was nothing of note on that hill, but then his uncle also thought Gilbert should grow a nice moustache and a pair of fluffy sideburns while he was at it. He seemed to think his nephew was eighty not twenty, and Gilbert was beginning to feel it; stuck inside all day, crouched over a desk. The itch he felt earlier was not only due to Anne. His entire body longed to move and explore.

An hour later he has his satchel packed with his trusted tools, his flint, his knife, his penny pencil, some thread and hooks, a flask of water, and his great grandmother's blanket. His aunt had returned it to his room, no doubt because May had quilts and comforters enough. It feels good to have it with him again, and as he climbs higher and the winds grow cooler, he stuffs it down the front of his shirt. He has never been at such an elevation before. Prince Edward Island is rolling rather than mountainous, but the hill he climbs is steep and sheer. There is no way the woman in the bonnet could have gone this far.

With each step forward he feels more relaxed, more sure of himself; his gaze focused on his footsteps and not on the view beyond. It comes as a huge surprise then, when the path takes a steep drop downward, and he realises it is not the same hill rising before him but another, blue and purplish in the mist. He throws his blanket over a rotting log and sits; guzzling down half his water and enjoying the way the cool liquid spills over his chin and saturates his shirt. Within moments of catching his breath he detects a faint smell of smoke. It is not only mist that shrouds the trees before him, but a campfire. It couldn't be the bonneted woman, surely, even Anne would struggle to climb up here.

He barely has time to get to his feet when a man and a woman approach him, the woman's face all but obscured by her pointed red bonnet. The rest of her garb is modest, no jacket, no bustle, no lace, the one concession to beauty an exquisitely embroidered waistcoat, with stitches so fine Gilbert is reminded of...

'My blanket,' he blurts, pointing to it. 'The stitching is the same.'

The woman giggles again, her calloused brown hand going up to hide her surprisingly white teeth. The man next to her grunts.

'Where'd you get that?' he asks roughly.

He lifts his old felt hat and Gilbert gets a good look at his eyes. They are differently shaped to his, in half moons like his mother, and there are two deep creases between his black brows that make him look like he is perpetually frowning.

His large square hand reaches the blanket. Gilbert stands in front of it.

'Why do you want to know?' he says stiffly.

'My people made that.'

Gilbert shrugs. 'Then they're my people too. My mother's grandmother was Nespe...'

He realises now he never learned her last name. She was always Nespe, from the sandstone shores west of Avonlea.

'Nespe who?'

'Nespe Redrock,' Gilbert finishes lamely.

The man spits in a way that would make Fred Wright proud.

'Never heard of her,' he utters, then wipes his hand over his mouth, as if hungry, starving, to get at the blanket. 'Don't think you're going to convince anyone up here to sell you another, for a bag of sugar and a bottle of rum –'

'Hey,' Gilbert cuts in, 'I know its real worth.'

'Which is why you use it for your little picnics,' the man finishes.

He turns to the woman beside him and motions for them to retreat. The woman ignores him, but it looks like the man is used to this and he trudges back down the hill and the campfire burning there.

'We met before,' Gilbert says, turning to her, 'in the clearing below? I'm sorry Ma'am, and beg your pardon, I had no idea you were there.'

He barely finishes speaking when the woman starts shaking her head, signalling she does not understand him. Gilbert is so flustered he can't help carry on, hoping she will somehow get his meaning. If she doesn't, if she tells that man in the old felt hat what she saw, it won't just be the blanket he'll lose, but a possibly a couple of teeth.

'I was lying down,' he says, placing his hands under his cheek, and tilting his head as if in sleep. 'I was... I was tired – sleepy, and I heard you,' here he cups his hand over his ear, and makes an awkward laugh.

The woman laughs too, then stops suddenly, when she hears what Gilbert says next.

'I saw your bonnet behind a tree – the white ash – agamok.'

'Agamok,' she says, her brown eyes bright with comprehension.

Gilbert nods till his head feels like it's about to come off, and almost feels like laughing himself when she beckons him with a swift lift of her chin. He follows her past the log he had been sitting on, and she places her hands on a the trunk of a tree. Its thick brown bark is like a basket weave that has been pulled open.

'Agamok.'

Gilbert glances at the white ash and nods again, then prods himself in the chest.

'Blythe,' he says and points to her, astonished to hear her say:

'Claudine.'

It occurs to him she might speak French, but when he tries the little he knows she starts shaking her head again. For the rest of the morning they barely speak, though he and Claudine share a fascinating conversation. He learns that the hill they are on is called Wopk, or Morning Light, and that the felt hatted man is her cousin, Sam Sark. By the time Sark returns the two of them are talking with their hands about tree bark – or what she calls maskwe – and in particular bapkook, or the birch bark that is easy to peel.

Claudine found him a perfect specimen, with bark like the finest parchment. Gilbert needs it to record everything he is learning, he never thought to bring his book with him.

Sark stands above them both, his frown so deep his eyebrows knit together, giving Gilbert the distinct impression he will not allow Claudine to sass him this time.

She presses her hands together now, and closes her eyes in sleep. Then cups one hand in a circle, arcing it over her arm like a rising sun.

'Sleep, dawn,' Gilbert says, repeating the sign. 'Tomorrow?'

'Agamok,' Claudine says again.

'You want to meet by the white ash in the morning?'

Sark grunts at Gilbert with reluctant admiration.

'You catch on quick. Deenie wants you to come with us, we're huntin' for young blue spruce.'

'For chest medicine?'

'For pain, gets rid of it real good. But you need the young cones, have to boil 'em straight after you pick 'em, then they have to soak for days. Takes a while, but the gum you get is powerful good. We know where a decent sized stand of 'em lie, 'bout a days trek from here. So what do you say, young Blanket, reckon you're up for the hike?'

Gilbert attempts a scowl but can't help breaking out into an enthusiastic grin. Aware of how eager he must look he clears his throat and utters sharply:

'My name is Blythe.'

'That's what I said,' says Sark, grabbing Claudine by the elbow.

Together they walk down to their camp fire, the flames bright against the dark of the woods. Gilbert rolls up his blanket, and though he feels warm, stuffs it inside his shirt. Everything else goes into the satchel and he gives Claudine a final wave.

'Hey Blanket, we'll see you tomorrow,' Sark hollers, 'if you can keep your trousers up!'

 **...**

 _* privateering means working on a ship as a private citizen rather than a representative of the Navy. Governments often commissioned privateers to capture others and seize property, with the promise they will take a share in the prize. It was a risky but quick way for anyone to make a fast buck, even Naval Officers who are supposed to be on shore leave ;o)_

 _* John Tyndall and Mary Treat are well known scientists of the period. Treat's book on Injurious Insects was a massive bestseller. Tyndall was tight with Pasteur._

 _* Mi'kmaq words, phrases and names come from the website 20 000 Names from Around the World_


	30. Chapter 30

**_Chapter thirty_**

The complacent grin on David's face dissolves when he enters his study that evening. He had been right about Peter Elliot's tumour – he was now two up on that Lowbridge doctor – and the maid had remembered to dust the aspidistra in the hall. But his high spirits come crashing down when he sets eyes on the state of his laboratory. What on earth is this _forest_ doing in here?

Gilbert's answer only exacerbates his annoyance, and by the time David departs to the parlour, he has plunged into what Aunt Jen calls "one of his moods". There is no need to ask which mood, the sneer, the frown and the stiffness of his carriage give it away. Not that it stops him harping on to his wife about the liberties Gilbert has taken.

'He must have hacked off half my specimen tree, the entire bench covered in pine cones. Pine cones!' he stresses, refilling his drink.

'Yes dear,' Jen says soothingly.

And she's another, David thinks bitterly, lavishing her attention on the infant girl instead of her husband.

'I thought I instructed you to find a good nanny,' he says, removing May's new doll from his chair. 'I'm not accustomed to sharing my wife in the evenings.'

'But David,' Jen says, nuzzling May's cheek, 'nannies aren't just conjured from the air. I must place an advert in the Gazette and interview some first.'

'More time away from me,' David whines. 'And now the decanter's empty. This house is going to rack and ruin since that boy and his brat arrived. And you wonder why we never had children.'

May decides to cry then, just to underline David's point, and his wife hurriedly summons the maid, who removes the child from the room.

Jen picks up the china doll her husband had tossed on the whatnot, and touches the porcelain head to her powdered, wrinkled cheek.

'You're mistaken dear,' she says, evenly, 'I don't wonder at all.'

She misses her nephew at dinner, but he is not inclined to sip soup and listen to his uncle pontificate this evening. In fact Gilbert is bewildered at David's utter lack of curiosity concerning Sark's claims about the blue spruce. What is a lab for, if not to find things out? But once dessert is done and the sound of Jen's piano playing ripples up the stairs, Gilbert begins to feel contrite. His mother was just as particular over the running of the cottage, and before she hurt her hand, spent half her time trying to keep her son out.

Can Anne be right, will the stone cottage shut forever when he returns to Redmond? To think in six short weeks he will be back there writing papers, attending lectures, and prepping for exams. Supper at the Ark on a Wednesday, drinks at the Mad Hatter on a Friday, repenting at St Columba's on a Sunday. Right now the only thing that excites him about school is the thought of more letters from Anne.

The following morning he is wise enough to take her missive up to his room, and is just about to lock his door when David bowls in.

'There you are, what are you doing, why has Rhodaline's portrait been turned to the wall?'

'What is it, Uncle?' Gilbert asks, patiently.

Usually David has gone by now. Gilbert had counted on it, Sark and Claudine will be setting off in half an hour.

'What _is_ it – what? But of course, you never came to dinner last evening. We received a note from Eggers during the cheese course. He wants to see you today!'

Gilbert's brow crinkles. David's small brown eyes light up.

'About that balm you made, the one your mother had you hawking like some no good spice seller.'

Gilbert ignores this comment, he is used to his uncle's toothless jibes, and besides he is curious.

'Eggers? The man who came for supper with the tall stooped fellow?'

If David hadn't been so excited he would have stomped his foot. It's bad enough his nephew calls the evening meal supper, but describing a genius like the professor as stooped!

'I thought the man had forgotten all about it,' Gilbert continues. 'At least he never brought it up. And every time I mentioned something with a root system you changed the subject.'

'Of course he never brought it up. Eggers is a gentleman. And a gentleman must be sure of a man's character first. Conversations about business can degenerate very quickly, particularly when large sums of money are involved.'

'I don't understand,' Gilbert says, stuffing Anne's letter into his pocket. It looks like it will have to wait for another time.

'He had to be sure you were serious, a man of science,' David adds, clapping Gilbert on the back, 'before he felt comfortable investing in you.'

'Investing in me?'

'Ah, but I've said more than I should,' says David, sheepishly. 'I do that, you know, fly off the handle now and then. You'll find out when you become a doctor, and hold life and death in your hands. The pressure you're under knowing one small error, one tiny misjudgment could cost a man his life. Temperament, you need temperament, not just intelligence and drive. You have the last two, have them in spades. But temperament, Gilbert. I was beginning to be afraid you lacked that one.'

'I see,' says Gilbert stiffly. 'How so?'

'The way you treat the infant girl as family rather than a patient. Your pointless interest in plants. Do you plan to become a botanist? No, I didn't think so. You _must_ narrow your focus. Shut all else aside.'

'To what end?' Gilbert asks him.

'To the _only_ end. To greatness! How else do you think it is achieved? But I meant to be one minute, the carriage will be waiting. Fanny!' he calls to the maid, 'bring my nephew's coat and hat downstairs.'

There are not many people who can make Gilbert Blythe go somewhere he does not want to go. And David is not one of them. If Gilbert leaves now it is because he wants to go, because a true chance of greatness outweighs a hike in the hills. Sark is only half expecting him anyway. And even if Gilbert did go, what would be the point; if he does not devote time and effort into the first successful balm he made, why bother looking into others? No, it is a much better use of his time to meet with Eggers, if only to hear him out. If he likes Gilbert's work he might like his mother's work too, perhaps this could be a way to get her interested in brewing again.

They only drive a quarter of a mile, Eggers lives in the very upper part of Upper Glen, his grounds extending to part of the hill Gilbert climbed yesterday. The extensive bay windows of the dining room look out to trees dressed in purplish mist. Within half an hour Gilbert is looking at them longingly.

It turns out this visit is little more than a marketing proposal. Eggers considers it only proper to give the lad a say on how the label should look on the jar of his astonishing new balm. Eggers thought something elaborate, using three or four printing inks, and a smart glass pot, the sort a lady would feel comfortable displaying on her vanity. Of course there was something to be said for plain and serviceable too. Bold print, one ink. They would have to mark it down, but they could also be sure of bulk orders.

This is the kind of conversation that would have Rowena Blythe running from the room. Gilbert could see Anne having fun with it – and with them. And his father? His father would no doubt approve. How Gilbert feels, he isn't sure. He knows that greatness demands sacrifice, but did it demand a ten minute discussion on the merits of cyan over – red! He sees it, a flash of red high in the hillside. It has to be Claudine. So she and Sark had left without him, well what did he expect? Gilbert turns his back to the view and looks into the room. It is the sort of space that greatness got you: an ornate ceiling, a ten foot fireplace, gilded wallpaper smothering the walls.

Gilbert is beginning to feel smothered himself. The ten foot fireplace has a ten foot fire in it.

'You look very wistful, Blythe. Got some lady waiting for you at home? Where was home again, Avonlea? Some country girl then, pining away?'

Eggers winks, David huffs.

'My nephew has _no_ time for sweethearting.'

He forgets the boy then, and begins a fresh argument with Eggers about serif versus sans serif.

'May I be excused?' Gilbert says.

'Yes, go for a walk, burn it off, that's the boy. Luncheon is served at one. There's a nice little path to the dovecots, only take care not to spoil your shoes.'

Gilbert bows his head in thanks to Eggers and dashes from the room, by the time he passes the waiting carriage he is running. He doesn't care about his shoes, polished useless things. He needs his boots and in five minutes he is back in his bedroom, throwing off the suit his uncle pressed him into wearing and throwing on his thickest sweater, his warmest trousers, and his favourite boots.

'Gilbert, where are you going?' Jen calls, as he slings on his satchel and dashes down the stairs.

He turns and flashes her a brilliant smile.

'I have no idea!' he says.

He isn't quite so cocky by the time he reaches the foot of the farthest hill, and kicks over the remains of the fire Sark and Claudine had made. The only way to go is up, but which route did they take? Fred's words come to him now, the time his eight year old self overheard how babies were made. "I'm still not counting out the cabbage patch," he muttered, his little red face going white. "I mean there's more than one way to climb a mountain, right Gil? _Right?"_

The carnelian ring should be on Anne's finger this week, and he pats her letter – he had brought it with him – and ponders over whether it is something she would mention. Curiosity gets him again, and reasoning he is already late, he takes Anne's letter from his pocket and tries to read and walk at the same time.

It says something about his sense of balance and direction that it takes him ten minutes before he trips. It says something about Anne's writing that Gilbert barely registers the fall, and is more worried about protecting the pages of her letter than he is his head. He tumbles against a tree branch jutting into his path and it snags his cheek. White drops of blood spatter on his shirt collar, and too soon he has forgotten his question…

No, he isn't reading about the bath Anne had last evening when she placed her feet on each side and lifted her hips till they left the water, wringing out her washrag between her legs, the hot scented trickle thrumming over her like a tongue – that, and Gilbert, came later. What fascinates, even thrills him, is reading about Anne's work with his mother at the cottage.

 _I told her to expect me bright and early in the morning, but I never expected to see her there. Would you believe she pulled me inside, said I was late and ordered me to de-head a half pound of lavender flowers? The smell, Gilbert! All I could think of was the lavender bath we had the first night we spent together. Hmm, I think perhaps I shall draw myself a bath this evening. Marilla and Martin are going to Mrs Lynde's to talk about going to Trintorp. And I am humouring them. They wouldn't really think of leaving, would they? Not Green Gables? Not for six weeks? The thought of it makes me shudder with loneliness, though I'm sure your mother could put me to good use._

 _Part of me wants to skip this bit, but I know you will want to know because that's the kind of man you are. Your mother's hand (I believe I shall call her Ro from now on. That's what she bade me call her this morning, as she is under the impression I am her apprentice now) still troubles her. Though perhaps not in the way you think. It doesn't appear to pain her overly much, she just cannot depend upon it. One moment she can keep a beaker steady, and the next the beaker flies off the bench and three ounces of beautifully distilled lavender oil spill all over the floor. I expected her to find some excuse to give up after that, and was all ready to give her my greenest grey eyed stare. Instead she simply looked at me and said, 'Well mop it up and get cutting, we need another half pound.'_

 _It's not at all like cooking, Gilbert, in fact I don't know if I can explain, but preparing herbs, testing, inventing, smelling, tasting, is almost like play. I sometimes think mistakes teach me more than getting it right. (Those lavender soaked rags for instance, I popped one in the collar of my dress just to enjoy the smell. And fished it out of my chemise just now, and was amazed to find my tender bosom felt far less tender.) Of course I will get myself a proper job, for I still mean to be a writer, and a wife and a mother and a dreamer of dreams. Oh why must one have to choose…_

Exactly, Gilbert thinks, remembering David's words, why should he have to shut out everything else and narrow his focus? It's a measure of how preoccupied he has become, because he has his answer right here. If he had kept his mind on the journey ahead he wouldn't be lost on a hilltop, with a twisted ankle. But when he thinks of the alternative, stuck in that stuffy dining room with men like Eggers discussing market share, he knows in his bones he has made the right choice. And if his uncle feels inclined to "fly off the handle' over his absence, then at least he did not have to invent reasons to be cantankerous. That mood will be much deserved, but it will not affect Gilbert. He is here for May and until such time as the good doctor wants to talk about her, he will carry on climbing this hill.

He makes several false starts that end at gorges or cliff faces. The woods here are not used to people and have reverted to their natural state; an unending tangled thicket of blackberry, knotweed and balsam. Still, he sticks to his path, even when he knows Sark and Claudine must have found an easier way. He thinks of her strange pointed bonnet, and soon after feels his skin begin to prickle. It should be impossible – must be – but he swears he is not alone.

Gilbert casts a nervous look over his shoulder and when he turns back he spies the red smear of a berry, squashed into old leaf matter. The moment he decides to go in the direction of the berry, the easier the climb becomes. To his relief the trees start thinning, but the mist is thicker now. He had no idea he would have to ascend this high and sits down discouraged and takes a deep drink. His ankle throbs, he longs to take his boot off, but once he does that he will never get it on again.

He tosses an apricot pit into the bushes and a bright white bird flutters out. A dove by the look of it, plump and well kept, unaccustomed to flying long distances. It probably belongs to Eggers, but that does not stop Gilbert tilting his head to the sky and sending a kiss to Lottie. If the dove did come from Eggers place then Gilbert must be heading south-east, when a straight south path would get him to the summit sooner and give him an idea of the lie of the land. He sets off in this new direction, though the climb is steeper still, then as if to encourage him on this path he spots another squashed berry.

Within an hour he gets to the top and looks back to where he has climbed, to the smaller hill northward, and the dell where he first met Sark and Claudine. He scans the horizon and looks for smoke and grins when he sees a thin plume, in a sheltered spot not half an hour's walk on the leeward side of the hill.

Later he is sitting with them, his foot wrapped in warm cabbage leaves. That, along with potatoes, jerky and bacon fat, made up the bulk of their supplies. The rest they caught and cooked with style: rabbit with wild thyme, pigeon with cress from a little hidden spring, and two new dishes Gilbert had not tried, grilled fiddleheads and fried balls of pounded meat and berries.

'This is Plains food,' Gilbert says, sniffing the pemmican for moose. It is deer, and he is glad.

Sark shrugs, then motions to the boiled potato stuck on the end of his knife.

'And this came from Peru.'

They laugh and eat and slouch round the fire, Claudine knitting, Sark dozing, and Gilbert looking up at the coral coloured sky. He would be finishing the soup course if he were in Acacia House right now, and he wraps his tired arms around his head and thinks about Anne. How once he had to grab hold of the grass they lay on so that he didn't grab hold of her. Back when she told him she was staying in Avonlea, at least until something better came along.

He wonders now, with his foot bound tight, his stomach full, and his eyes on the pale stars above, if there can be anything – anything – better than what he has right now? He has everything, beauty, shelter, the promise of adventure.

For the first time in a long time a feeling of peace makes a home in his heart. All he needs, all he ever needed really, is Anne beside him.

 **…**

 _* spice seller was one of the more polite terms for snake oil salesman_

 _* pemmican is basically dried meat pounded into powder and mixed with fruit and fried into little balls. It was favoured by Plains peoples because it was high energy and easy to keep and carry over long distances_


	31. Chapter 31

**_Chapter thirty-one_**

It was Claudine who dropped the berries, squashed them too. If she hadn't the birds would only steal them away and she did want Blythe to find his way up the hillside. Or at least see him try.

That he managed it tickled her greatly; he reminded her of her little brother, and Gilbert was teased and fussed over in equal amounts during the four days he spent with them.

Four days!

He hadn't been specific in the note he left in his room, merely said he decided to continue his field research somewhere on the south side of hill, and might camp out for a night or two.

Such imprecision almost sent his uncle's shoe through the floor, and by the time Gilbert turned up on Saturday afternoon, (his hair a dirty mop, top lip and chin spangled with straggly whiskers) he was livid. Or would have been. Yesterday, David finally received word from the ear specialist in Charlottetown, who was available to discuss the infant girl's case.

When Gilbert finds this out he is understandably sheepish, but this feeling gives way to fury when he learns from his Aunt that the specialist has no plans to come to Acacia House. Dr Blythe went to him – _without_ little May.

'Now look here, Gilbert, you are not taking her!' Jen argues, following Gilbert into his room. 'Besides the fact May has a routine, I am interviewing a nanny this afternoon. Lucy Crawford recommends her high –'

'Nanny?' Gilbert drops the shirt he had been stuffing into his satchel and swivels on his muddy heel. 'How long do you think we are staying here?'

'You think I would know such a thing? My place is to host, and to clear the way, so that men like you may pursue what is important.'

Men like him? He isn't anything like David. A laugh builds in Gilbert's throat, but it soon dissolves when Jen continues.

'That _is_ what you were pursuing, wasn't it, why you had me dream up the letter I would have to write your father if you fell down the hill and broke your neck? Why you left May in my care and went off gallivanting for pinecones? Gilbert, I am seventy-eight years old.'

She plants her hands upon her hips in a manner that suggests she is savouring this. The chance to rebuke a man (even better, a Blythe man) is a rare opportunity for Jen, and her crinkly lids crinkle even further as if she wants to hide the twinkle in her eyes. But she cannot hide her surprise, or pleasure, when her nephew drops a quick kiss on her silvery pompadour.

'You Aunty, are no frail biddy. But I take your point,' he says, drawing back and flinging his satchel on his bed. 'May would only be scratchy if we took the train tonight.'

'Precisely,' Jen concurs. She picks up Gilbert's shirt and returns it to its hanger. 'And if you delay till Wednesday, I shall be able to accompany you.'

'Oh yes, and why's that?' Gilbert says.

He is only half interested, already thinking on how quickly he can get back up the hill.

'David is hosting a celebratory dinner, at Hoskeths no less. Did you know they have a French chef? Charles Eggers now has Mr Curnow on board, one of the foremost manufacturers in the whole of the Maritimes.'

'Manufacturing what?' Gilbert asks, his handsome head already in the purple mists beyond his window.

'Your balm, of course!'

Gilbert sinks onto the edge of his bed, the plush satin quilt deflating under his weight as thoughts pass through his mind in quick succession. First disbelief, then outrage, then a sneaking admiration for the old man. His uncle had seen his chance and he had taken it; there is nothing more Blythe than that. As Gilbert thinks on this, a burden he did not know he was carrying suddenly lifts from his shoulders: It is all taken care of, it is all in hand, and he didn't have to do one thing.

This is a rare experience for Gilbert Blythe, who has grown up knowing that if he does not do it, it does not get done. Now it will. Without his input, yes. But also with none of his effort and care. The balm will always belong to him, but if men like Eggers and Curnow and his uncle want to make it into something more, why should Gilbert stop them?

Jen, of course, is oblivious to this. All that registers is her nephew's dazed face, his sunburned cheek lifting the corner of his mouth in a grin.

'I hoped you'd be pleased,' she says, and would have clapped with excitement if not for Aunt Rhodaline glowering at great height from the wall. 'Now Miss Hackthorne arrives at three, and I don't want you to frighten her away. So if you wish to meet her, ask Fanny to draw you a bath. Good heavens, you look like a mountain man!'

Miss Hackthorne is found to be a snubbed nose, sensible girl. She completed two years at Summerside High, which impresses Jen greatly. She also knows the _Pretty Song Book_ and _Mother Goose_ by heart, which intrigues Gilbert. He observed early on that May liked being held, and now has a solid reason why: she could feel speech through her little body, could see lips give words shape. Nursery rhymes, Gilbert theorised, could also be acted out with hands very simply. In the short amount of time he had spent with Claudine and Sark he had come to learn much just by talking with his hands. If he could do this, perhaps it might help May too. It has to be better than waiting around.

Miss Hackthorne doesn't mind in the least what strange ideas Mr Gilbert spouts. She'll happily sing _Pease Porridge Hot_ till sundown, so long as he continues to place her hand upon his lean brown throat in order to demonstrate reverberation.

Tonight he's got his old aunty's hand tucked about his manly arm. Impeccably dressed in a high collar and bow tie, all ready to escort her to that highfalutin restaurant known for serving such oddities as squashed bloodied duck!

Dinner goes smoothly, and David is cheerful despite his nephew's harum-scarum jaunts up hills of no note. Eggers even went so far to say the boy did right.

'Who knows,' he says, toasting Gilbert's good health with his sixth cup of coffee, 'Pine cones could be next, and then…' here he lowers his cup and makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, as if picturing his name on a fifty foot billboard. 'Eggers and Curlow's Cure Alls become a household name –'

'And Blythe,' David reminds him. 'Eggers, Curlow and Blythe.'

His uncle slaps Gilbert's back in a show of unity; Gilbert does not slap back. He is thinking of the heavy booted men who would have to hack through the woods in order to get to the young blue spruces. They would probably harvest all the cones in one day, set up vats right there in the hillside, transport barrels in carts.

A feeling of protection blooms inside him, the sort usually inspired by Anne. And a lie forms on Gilbert's lips, one a man of science would never utter: that he doubted the pine cone's efficacy.

Before he can say this, David's colleague, the ear specialist, strides past the table, tipping his top hat at Jen.

'Dr Fagerlund!'

'Blythe, old boy! Eggers, Curlow! How dashed convenient to see you! I'm just about to head off to the Club, what do you say, young pup,' he says to Gilbert, 'want to tag along?'

 _It's not as if I haven't been to a Club before,_ ' Gilbert wrote to Anne later that night, _'so when I say I did not want to go, don't think of me as some wide eyed hayseed who was wholly out of his depth. I've been to Clubs with Mirabelle's admirers, and they_ _are all the same: cigar smoke, leather chairs, heavy drapes, quiet footfalls, and never a woman in sight. Of course those fellows only wanted to talk about women. It was very different tonight. We had rational, intelligent discussions, the kind I have with Mr Naseby and Jo – but without any God in it. Everything else was up for debate. Prohibition, emancipation, reform, the Grits, the Tories, even the Queen. Then we argued precedents in law and science, and the conversation quickly turned to medicine. I decided it was time to bring up May's case. My uncle was 'resting his eyes' by this time and Dr Fagerlund seemed a reasonable man. He sat back in his chair and relit his pipe and said according to my uncle's case notes it sounded like an open and shut case. The child was deaf and dumb, and the best option would be to place her in an institute for feeble minded children where she could be instructed in oralism._

 _I wasn't as surprised as you think I might have been, having lived at Acacia House for almost three weeks I am used to this line of thinking. When I mentioned the hand talk I learned from Claudine it was almost by the bye, but Fagerlund became so agitated he spilled his tobacco all over his paunch._

 _He told me hand talk is illegal, Anne. I had no idea, did you? An international convention was held back in 1880 and sign language was officially banned. Even here, in Canada. I felt dumbfounded and told him so, and that's when he said: "The only dumb one will be this May of yours, if you neglect her speech."_

 _He uttered the last words so loudly my uncle woke up, and I knew I needed some air. Eventually I ended up at the hotel and was surprised to find Uncle David waiting up for me._

" _Do you believe in science or do you believe in superstition?" he asked._

 _And I answered somewhat stupidly, "Both."_

 _I don't know why. I was tired and frustrated, and yes embarrassed to be found ignorant in front of Uncle and his colleagues. I knew too, that finding the money to send May to the Institute in Nova Scotia is far beyond our family's means. And then Anne, forgive me, I felt despair._ _He must have seen it in me, because his manner softened, he even offered me his armchair, but I couldn't keep still. So I paced and he pontificated about his youthful dreams; how he laid them aside for the sake of serving the world._

" _You want to help May, and it's a noble cause. But it is also out of your hands unless you embrace the road you have started on, and get yourself to medical school…"_

 _I interrupted him, said the idea of May being made to wait until I have qualified as a doctor was futile; May needed help right now. It was then David told me May would not have to wait, all I had to do was continue with my studies. He then went on to remind me that Eggers had to be sure I was a man of science, before he backed my work. Once I had assured him of that, I could be sure of a regular income just as soon as the balm went into production._

 _I told him I was going back to Redmond and Medical school after that. But this answer didn't please him._

 _"That won't do it," he said, and when he shook his head I swore I saw my father. "I want your word that you will always conduct yourself like a gentleman. No more herb talk, no more hikes, no more talking like an Indian. A man of honour. Swear to me, that's the only path you'll take?"_

 _And I swore to him, Anne, what else could I do, that I would always be an honourable man._

Gilbert then went on to write some fresh accounts: the finalising of the label design, his meeting with his uncle's lawyer (curious fellow, amateur botanist) and his secret work with May. He cannot tell if she understands his signs, but she is definitely engaged...

Anne runs her finger over that last word, then brings the page to her nose, seeking some trace Gilbert. But today the scent of pineapple sage is strong on her hands, and her fingertips are chartreuse with the dill flowers she crushed this morning. Reluctantly she returns the letter to her apron pocket where it has lived for over a week, and sighs.

She isn't lonely – she may never be again – but she misses him, and Di and Marilla. She and Martin will be in Nova Scotia by now, purchasing their passages on the new steamer to Sweden. After the second attack Martin grew even more sentimental. It looked like Davy was never coming back, and Martin's heart yearned for his steadfast daughter. When Providence came knocking in the form of Ephraim White looking for work, Marilla finally consented to go. Anne was always with Ro these days, and as Young Mrs Rossi no longer went dancing she liked to pass the time at Green Gables. Ruby's endless chatter was nothing like Anne's, but her handwork was indecently good. She crocheted two yards of Carrockmacross lace during her visits. Marilla did not know if she had the patience to play host to Ruby while she crocheted a third.

The two girls stroll home after Prayer Meeting this evening, and both of them are silent. Ruby stroking the pink heart necklace, Anne crossing her arms about herself and gazing up at the sky. She says farewell to Ruby and stops in at the Blythes. She has walked this route so many times her boots have made a meandering path through the Solomon's Seal and anenomes that grow on this side of the house.

Ro is there – she usually is – making some notes in her book. She looks up to see Anne reading a letter and knows exactly who it is from.

'That a new one?' she says from her desk, laying the blotter over a page.

'An old one,' Anne responds, not looking up, 'I haven't replied to him yet.'

The girl looks frayed at the edges; Ro knows just how she feels and closes her book and stands behind at her. She folds her rawboned arms around Anne's and hugs her tight, as if she could stop the next words coming out if she held on staunchly enough. The happiness of hard work with this blessed girl beside her is something Ro wants to cling to. But it's exhausting to pretend she does not know what she knows, and it tortures her to see Anne try.

Ro loosens her arms slowly and turns Anne by her shoulders till they stand face to face.

'You used to write to Gilbert every day, but I know why you don't – why you can't.' She takes in shallow a breath, and another, then lets it go in a rush. 'There is no way to tell him in a letter, is there, Anne? You need to go to him.'

Anne stiffens. Her gaze drops, then her head follows, chin almost to her chest.

'Of course you know...'

Anne falters, unsure how to continue, until her eyes fall on her belly and the ferocious love now blooming there. When she finally peers up she doesn't look defeated, in fact one of her auburn eyebrows is nearly cocked.

' _You_ probably knew before I did.'

Ro is all ready to refute this, or cover her knowing with flimsy excuses: the absence of the carnelian ring, Anne's sudden raptures for ginger and mint. In truth Ro knew long before, perhaps before it even happened. Which is why instead feeling desperate and wanting to vent that desperation out on Anne, she is overwhelmed by a sense of calm.

'It doesn't matter what I know. How much I love you – or my equally reckless son. This is not the sort of secret you can hug to yourself. Anne, Gilbert must be told.'

Anne leans against Ro's shoulder, her slender body swaying like the windchime that shifts on the oak bough. It's not that she doesn't want to tell Gilbert, or is even afraid of what he might say. Anne knows telling will begin the unravelling of something she wants to keep tucked inside. Once the secret is out they must say goodbye to their secret world. But it is done now, for better for worse, and it shall be for the better...

'I know,' she says, her grey eyes solemn, and slowly lifts her head. 'I'll talk to Ephraim, then Ro if you can spare me, tomorrow I must go to the Glen.'

 **...**

 _* Tommy Thumb's Pretty Song Book by Mary Cooper first published 1744, and Mother Goose's Melodies by John Newbery first published 1760_

 _* the duck dish Miss Hackthorne is referring to is Duck a la Presse, where rare cooked duck is put through a press like cider apples. Sorry to the vegos and vegans for that image._

 _* the Milan Conference of 1880 is known in the Deaf community as an atrocity that almost destroyed sign language_

 _* oralism is the practise of lip reading, vocal exercises, and mimicking mouth shapes so that the Deaf could be assimilated into the hearing world. While its early proponents had good intentions it never had the success rates it boasted of, and rejected the value of a Deaf culture, as well as the nuance and genius of sign language_

 _* hand talk is a name for American Indian sign language created by indigenous peoples in order to communicate with each other when they lack a shared language._


	32. Chapter 32

**_Chapter thirty-two_**

Anne arrives at the Glen on the same day as a westerly gale, which funnels between the hills, hot and arid; like the devil's own breath, as Glen folk say. Being from Avonlea, she forgoes the cost of a cab in favour of walking, and within a matter of minutes her hat is lodged at the top of a twenty-foot hedge. She lifts the hood of her travelling cloak over her head, and after a striding headlong into the furnace that leaves her dress drenched in sweat, finally approaches the iron gates of Acacia House.

There are five immense carriages lined up in the driveway, the horses' heads in nosebags, the drivers' collars pulled high, as a thick red dust flies wildly, coating man, beast and Anne. The front door is shut, the bell-pull has been removed and no one comes when she knocks. Anne ducks around the side of the tall brick house. Her eyes are streaming, and she tugs the hood down further and looks for another way to get in. Leaves and petals go hurtling by as she passes under pergola by some tall French windows, and presses her nose to the glass. Inside is a dining room bustling with servants and guests, and there by the empty fireplace, is Gilbert, in a short dark beard, laughing with another bearded man.

Anne raps against the glass, but the wind and the chatter drown out her furtive taps. She is tired and hot and horribly thirsty, and dropping her suitcase into desiccated Maiden's Blush, she strikes the window with a bang. Twenty four heads turn in unison, and David leaps from his chair. His wife urges him down and smiles, her face a study of perfect composure.

It is after all, just a young girl, in a dusty hood and cloak. Going by the basket on her arm is it probably one of Lucy Crawford's maids bringing extra ice. She gestures to the girl with a pointed finger to go further down the side of the house. Anne frowns, wondering why on earth she didn't open the French window, and leaving her case in the flowerbed, trudges up to what she expects will be the kitchen.

The cook meets her at the kitchen door.

'No hawkers, not today!'

Anne opens her mouth to repudiate this and swallows a helping of dust.

The cook softens somewhat and invites her in, offering her an upturned bucket to sit upon.

'You're not from round here, are you, dearie?' she says, and gives Anne a ladle of water. 'You need a shawl in this wind, not some heavy cloak. Whatcha sellin' anyway?' Cook adds, eyeing the basket, hopefully.

'It's one of Mrs Crawford's girls, is that right?' Jen asks, entering the kitchen. 'I mentioned to Lucy that if they could spare it, I should be grateful for more ice. This wind makes one so dreadfully thirsty,' she says, removing the empty ladle from Anne's hand. 'Scald that,' she orders, passing it to Cook, before addressing Anne again. 'Please give my thanks to your housekeeper, I'll return the basket this evening.'

Her hand goes round the handle, Anne grasps it right back.

'You're making a mistake – ' she begins, rising to her feet.

With her free hand she takes down her hood and sends a shower of red dust through the kitchen.

'My blancmange, you little trollop!' Cook exclaims, throwing the skirt of her apron over a pudding the colour of a cadaver.

Of all the words for this woman to choose, this one hits Anne like a fist.

'Trollop?' she explodes. 'If this is the Glen idea of hospitality then I'm surprised at Gilbert for staying so long!'

She rises to her full height now, her pointed chin jutting out. Shaking her head, angrily, and releasing another cloud of dust. Cooks watches, her mouth slack, her eyes widening with an old childhood fear. No matter how much dust this creature makes, her tangled hair remains fearful red. But what spooks Cook most are those big eerie eyes peering out from a streaky mask of dirt.

'You're… you're not a trollop,' she stammers, cowering behind Jen. 'You're a demon!'

Her employer is this close to rolling her eyes. If not for the legendary elderflower wine Cook was famed for, Jen would have replaced her long ago.

'Take the pudding to the scullery, Mary,' she says, before taking Anne's elbow in a pincer-like grip. 'You, young Miss, are coming with me!'

Anne can tell by Jen's tone she is not about to be shown into the dining room, and huffs with frustration. Though the heat of her temper drops of few degrees when she is ushered into the library. She has never seen so many books in a house before, not even at Josephine Barry's.

'He was right,' she murmurs, eyeing the shelves, 'this place is a paradise.'

Jen is oblivious to Anne's gawping. What she cares about is her nephew's name – or rather his reputation. She closes the door behind her, her doughy jaw quite set.

'How do you know my nephew?' she says, sharply. 'I have never seen you before.'

Jen knows full well that several of the Glen girls (May's nanny included) are sweet on Gilbert. But they are all nice girls from good families. This one looks like she sprung out of a volcano, or the depths of some mountain cave. And just like the wind chewing through her prize roses, Jen's mind begins to whirl. All that hiking Gilbert used to do, disappearing for days with people she had never heard of. What did he call them; Claudine and Sark?

What if this person is Claudine, what if she has taken it upon herself to look for Gilbert since David had forbidden him returning to the hill? What did they get up to up there, and what does this girl want? Well whatever it is, she shall not find it here. Today is an auspicious day for the Blythes; the contract is signed and every important man and his wife is now squeezed around their fully extended dining table.

Anne reads Jen like a well thumbed book. She has not spent her childhood being bustled away like yesterday's sweepings, without coming to recognise that look.

'Your nephew knows me me,' she says, imperiously. 'I am Anne.'

Jen's response is not quite what Anne expects, though she does at least offer an apology.

'One of Gilbert's chums, from Avonlea, forgive me dear, why didn't you say?'

How was Jen to know the word 'chum' would hurt even more than 'trollop'? There she was, all ready to show Anne to the spare room and offer her some privacy to freshen up, when the bewildering girl throws off her heavy cloak and marches down the hall in the direction of the dining room.

'My dear, you're in no fit state –' Jen calls. But she utters it so demurely and follows so primly, she hasn't a hope of stopping her.

Picture the scene from the guests' point of view. The room close and warm with not a window open, everyone downing far too much of Cook's famous elderflower wine. And now their glasses are charged. Celebrating what, they're not entirely sure. Eggers claims it is a victory for the common man (he had gone for the cheaper jar and the promise of bulk orders). Curlow calls it the business of the future (whatever that means). And the Doctor says it is nothing less than a triumph in the field of medicine.

'And it all began with my nephew here,' he says, proudly, clapping the young man on the back. 'To Gilbert.'

'To Gilbert!'

'To Gilbert!'

'To Gilbert!'

'GILBERT!'

Anne, who stands on the threshold, has to shout his name just to be heard. Every eye is now trained on the dust-covered harridan barring the door.

Gilbert freezes for a second longer than he should have, before dashing to Anne's side.

'Anne – you're here – what's happened?' he jabbers, and attempts to guide her away.

'What?' Anne says crossly, 'aren't you going to introduce me to your _chums?_ '

'My what? They're not my chums,' he mutters, striding into the hall.

When he notices Anne isn't following, he turns and offers his hand. 'Anne please, you look –' he is about to say terrible, then quickly says, 'upset. Has something happened in Avonlea?'

'No,' Anne says, crossly, and tries to wipe some dust from her face. 'I mean yes, I mean not like that, I just... Gilbert, I had to see you.'

'So come then, we can go to my room –'

'Ahem!' Jen says, behind his back. 'I don't think that would be appropriate, to say nothing of bad manners. Those people came here for _you_ , Gilbert. Off you go,' she commands, 'I'll take care of our guest.'

Anne almost smiles as she waits for Gilbert to tell his aunt that is not going to happen. But he doesn't. He nods, places a kiss on Anne's filthy glove, and returns like a chastened child to the party.

To his credit he spends the next twenty minutes throwing the guests into disarray. There are twenty four chairs at a table for made for eighteen and now the guest of honour wants to squeeze in another.

When Anne enters the room a few minutes later, David is wringing his hands. It is bad enough that Anne's chair was procured from Fanny's room and doesn't match the rest of the finely upholstered pieces. But it also makes the table unbalanced, and there isn't another chair to be had.

No one else cares about seating arrangements, not when the girl they've all been talking about reappears; transformed in a way only Anne Shirley can. Her pale oval face cooled with fresh rosewater, her burnished hair dressed by Fanny, her tall, lithe form buttoned into a silken leaf-green gown. She stands in the doorway with a natural, almost earthy grace, the sort Millais or Rosetti would paint. The room goes silent, marred only by the screech of Gilbert's chair as he rises to his feet.

'Please allow me to introduce…' and he swallows hard, unsure how best to say this.

He has never spoken of having a sweetheart, let alone a wife. He never dreamed he would see the merging of his secret world with this one, and wants more than anything to run to her side and get her away from here. She is more beautiful than his dearest memories of her, there was something almost wild in her eyes. As though a deep, primal force had taken hold and was bursting the way a crocus did as it thrust up from under the snow. A familiar throb pulses through him, in a region much lower than his heart. Though that beats just as wildly, as he watches her walk toward him.

'Come now, Blythe, don't keep us in suspense. Who is this mystery lady?' says Eggers, licking his lips.

What a tasty young filly, a real fire brand, didn't he like a girl like that?

'Mr Eggers, this is my – my – this is my –'

' _Chum_ ,' Anne finishes, not a little defiantly. 'Miss Shirley, from Avonlea.'

Gilbert swallows hard again, what else can he do? If Anne had only written, told him to expect her, he would have had the chance to prepare his aunt and uncle with the news. The last letter he wrote explained his position, he had sworn to behave like a man of honour in order to keep Eggers on side. And it was safe to assume, in Eggers' eyes at least, that a man of honour did not harbour a secret wife secured with a blood oath.

'Chum, eh?' Eggers says, stroking his beard with excitement. 'In that case, sweet lady, sit by me!'

And poor David, who is already passing puce goes liver-red, as everyone starts shuffling their chairs again.

Things get worse for Anne before they get better, though 'better' is debatable, resulting as it does with Anne slapping Charles Eggers' jowly face, before fleeing the room.

Prior to that (before she dropped her napkin and Eggers had taken his time retrieving it) Anne had entered into a fierce debate with her gracious host, David Blythe. Talk had turned to May; that was after all why Gilbert decided to come here. David responded in his usual smug fashion: that it was all in hand. When the infant girl reached a year in age she would be placed in the best institute for feeble minded children in all Canada. Assimilation, that was the key, teach the child to converse so that she could contribute to society instead of being a burden.

'Have you spent any time in an Institute, Dr Blythe?' Anne had asked him, mildly.

Gilbert, who had half an ear open to every conversation Anne had been involved in, sat up tall in his chair. He knew that tone, it was the same one Anne used when she spoke to the School Inspector.

David clucked complacently.

'That is not my area of expertise.'

'Well it's mine,' Anne said, tilting her head. 'I spent a good deal of time in an Institute –'

'As a nurse?' Eggers cut in, excitedly.

'As a child,' Anne said. 'An orphaned child, to be precise.'

The hubbub round the table diminished to a lull. This educated, well spoken girl was an orphan!

David clucked again, and folded his hands behind his head.

'But you've proved my point, Miss Shirley, how else could you have learned your genteel ways if you had been left to run wild on the streets? You would never have been admitted into my house, for one thing,' he bumbled on, heedless of Jen's sharp intake of breath. 'Without the benefit of the Asylum you would have become an outcast, and I'm afraid the same is true for May. She must be assimilated into society if she ever hopes to fit in.'

'Surely the best way to fit in, Dr Blythe, is to make a space for her to fit into? And no, I did not learn that at the Asylum, I learned that from being raised by people who decided to make a space for me; who said I could never have been replaced, not with a dozen boys. That's how May should be raised too.'

Anne's voice had cracked, slightly, as she said this. Further down the table Gilbert shifted in his chair, while Mr Curlow wheezed at him, 'What's that girl in the green dress shouting about now?'

'Ah the ideals of youth!' David scoffed, looking sidelong at Eggers. 'What a good thing Gilbert isn't influenced by you.'

'I feel sorry for you, Dr Blythe,' Anne responded, coldly, 'for the prison you've put yourself in. The world won't stop turning if you make a little room for a mismatched chair!'

When she stood up her napkin landed on the floor. And Eggers, used to coffee not wine, ducked under the table and tucked his head up Anne's skirts in an effort to retrieve it.

'Mr Eggers!' the guests tutted together.

'Miss Shirley!' they exclaimed again, as that same gentleman was sent sprawling to the floor.

Anne fled the room then, without giving Gilbert so much as a backward glance.

He stood up, dessert spoon still in his hand, which he clattered upon the table.

'Stop, all of you, stop calling her that. She is not – she is not Miss Shirley.'

'Good God, boy!' David hissed, 'who _is_ she then?'

'She's my wife,' he said, and left the room.


	33. Chapter 33

**_Chapter Thirty-three_**

When Anne fled from the dining room she was angry with the Doctor – even the slap she gave Charles Eggers she would rather have given to him. But in the time it takes to dash down the long corridor and up the grand oak staircase, her fury finds a new target: the hapless fellow running after her.

Anne once said their lovemaking held a paradox; that when she joined with Gilbert she felt powerful and vulnerable at the same time. The natural consequence of lovemaking being motherhood, the paradox had now amplified. Her roaring sense of power almost frightened her, such was her instinct to protect this little life. Yet with every step that carried her away from Gilbert (and there were many, the spare room had its own wing) the more vulnerable Anne felt.

She was not so starry-eyed to assume Gilbert's initial reaction to the news would be joy. Panic probably, a small amount of terror, but he knew what he was doing, and had even done it twice. What had happened was hardly unexpected, but Anne never expected this. To arrive in a bedraggled heap to find the boy who loved dandelions, who had built her a house of snow, so polished and dignified and _bearded!_ How she hates that Gilbert suits it, the way it draws attention to his full brown lips and makes his hazel eyes glint like bits of gold. What do beards and beauty and balms matter, when he failed her when she needed him most?

Gilbert is failing her right this moment, as he takes the stairs three at time. Because his mind has not turned to Anne yet, but the tangle he left behind him. Contracts have been signed, yes, but contracts can he undone. Still, he is young enough and lucky enough to believe he can bottle lightening again. First he must comfort Anne.

When he finds her in the spare room she is already down to her petticoats. Her new green gown, the one she dreamed of Gilbert unbuttoning as she stitched each tiny buttonhole, is in a crumpled heap at her feet. Indulgent thoughts of comforting her crumple to the floor now, too. Transfixed as he is by the sight of Anne, her hair perfectly coiffed, her face haughty and proud, standing in her undergarments. His gaze lowers despite himself, settling on the little satin bow of her chemise. It lies untied above her corset, the ends of the ribbon dangling temptingly.

Anne steps out of her dress at though he isn't there, and bends down to retrieve it, her lush breasts almost falling free. When she stands again, green silk crushed in her arms, the straps of her chemise are down near her elbows.

She narrows her eyes and tilts her head.

'Cat got your tongue?' she says.

Gilbert clears his throat. 'No, I… are you leaving?'

'Leaving?' Anne says, angrily. 'I was never invited to stay.'

She struts over to the enormous brass bed positioned in the middle of the room. The mattress is so high she does not need to bend as she as lays her dress on the counterpane.

'The last train departs at four, if you would be so kind as to find me a cab –'

'You don't have to go,' he blunders, still believing he can fix this with a thoughtful word, his firm assurance.

'How kind of you to say so, but I feel I have outstayed my welcome.'

As she says this she calmly folds the shirtwaist and skirt, and tucks them into her case. Gilbert wants to shake her. He approaches the bed and grabs her wrist.

'Would you stop that for a minute and look at me!'

Anne freezes. 'Let me go!'

'Not until I know you're listening.'

She shakes him off, and he is appalled to note he has left mark on her wrist. It did not seem as though he was holding her that tightly, and he steps away from the bed.

Anne follows him, her arms folded under her breasts now heaving with such agitation he is sure the chemise will split. Her dark nipples have escaped her corset and show through the gauzy fabric. They harden into perfect points and his heart starts thumping his ears. All he can think of is how much he wants to yank that little ribbon till everything tears.

'I'm waiting,' she says, hotly.

Gilbert merely blinks.

'I'm still waiting.'

'For what?' he asks stupidly.

'For what?' Anne utters, glaring at him. 'What is wrong with you, Gilbert? I feel as though you've turned into someone else.'

She marches by him and reaches for her travelling dress, the dust skilfully removed. She won't need her petticoat under such heavy skirts, and loosens the ties at her hips, before that too falls to the ground.

'Would you stop acting like I'm not here?' Gilbert fumes.

'You're not here, as far as I'm concerned. You've changed, Gilbert Blythe, I don't know you anymore.'

She throws her petticoat into the suitcase, the resulting gust scenting the air with the smell of her body. He misses her, he has missed her so madly, and now she is here and hates him. Does she hate him? Is this how things are going to end? The mere idea of losing her binds tightly with his desire so that he feels like he can't move.

He yanks off his jacket, his collar and tie, and sucks in a few deep breaths. Rosemary, lavender, musk fill his lungs, till every part of his body, and one part in particular, is about ready to burst.

Anne is unravelling the pretty updo Fanny had made, and making a simple braid. All she has to do is throw on her dress and shoes, close her case, and she'll be gone.

'Anne, I'm sorry –'

'You looked like it, guffawing with your _chums_!'

Ah, so this is what it's really about. Her pride was hurt, because she thought he cared more for the people downstairs than he does for her. He had almost forgotten this side of Anne, and who could blame him? Every time he fell, she had been there with her open arms and perfect understanding. Hopefully, surely, she will offer it again.

Gilbert feels he is on firmer ground now, and boldly contradicts her:

'I never said you were my chum.'

'Your aunt did.'

'Because that's how Ma describes you in her letters. Why does it offend you so much, you said yourself you were my friend?'

Anne swivels round and her hands go to her hips.

'I was trying to protect your reputation because I thought you were protecting May. And what do I find, a bunch of heartless, joyless fogies mapping out her life like she was some sort of experiment!'

No doubt she lumped him in with those heartless, joyless fogies. His own pride takes a hit, and he lashes out.

'I suppose this is why you stopped writing to me?'

'I didn't stop.'

'You used to write every day!'

'But _you_ didn't, did you? Too busy plotting with your cronies. How could you agree to it, Gilbert, _why_ are you here? You told me you were leaving me because you wanted to help May. Now I can't help wondering if…'

Anne falters. Was she choosing her words, or wishing he would fill in the gaps? Gilbert waits in disbelief, alarmed and disgusted that she could think such things of him. If he holds his tongue will she say it? She wouldn't, would she? Not his Anne. Not his wife.

He takes a step closer, and she backs into the bed.

'What are you wondering? Go on, say your piece.'

Anne's eyes bore into him defiantly. She is testing him, but he doesn't know this, does not know how desperately she needs him not to fail again.

'I was wondering if this was all part of your father's plan to get away from me.'

He knew she was going to say that, but it doesn't lessen the pain, as though she yanked his ribs apart and slowly squeezed his heart. His response is one of primal self-defence as he strikes his fist into the wall.

Anne winces as though she is afraid of him. This hurts even more. He would never harm her; he would throw himself to the wolves if it meant she could be saved. Doesn't she know that by now?

'Confound you!' he snaps, and strikes the wall again. 'You know very well why I'm here. I've bent to the will of everyone, to David, Eggers, Curlow, Jen, I've bent to the will of my father, my mother, and to you!'

'Me!'

'You think I wanted to come here, you think I wanted to spend one second away from you? Do you have any idea what it's been like, living under their scrutiny, while you live a life that should be mine. I did it for my family, I did it for you –'

Anne almost relents when he reminds her of the fact he had never wanted to come. But he made the mistake of ploughing on, trying to make it sound like life here was some sort of hardship, when anyone could see it was not. His every whim was catered to; his heart had grown hard. How else could he even contemplate sending May away? Didn't he know what that would mean to her?

'You sound like them,' Anne says viciously, 'justifying your actions for the sake of the greater good. I don't know you, Gilbert. I don't!' she cries, shaking her head, the ends of her braid unravelling.

Fanny knocks at the door now, asking if all was well. This is Anne's chance to be rid of him, if that's what she really wants.

'I'm fine, Fanny,' Anne says trembling, her eyes locked on his.

'And your husband – I mean to say, your intended – that is, your ah...friend?'

A look of surprise passes over Anne's face, as she realises Gilbert must have tried to tell them who she was.

She murmurs, 'He's fine too.'

Gilbert's fist uncurls and his hand goes to her hair.

'Anne, you know me, you know you do.'

'No,' she says, still fighting this. 'I don't.'

She straightens up and faces him, pupils blown, lips parted, breath hot. Every inch of her body pulsing with blood so hot she feels like she's about to melt. But she will not yield, not ever. He can stand over her all he wants. He can take her roughly in his arms, he can sweep her suitcase to the floor and lay her on the bed, he can grind his hips against hers with thirty nights of longing.

'Do you know me now?' he says huskily, his brown hand cupping her breast.

He does not know how tender they are, how the sweet ache intensifies with his touch. When he takes her nipple in his mouth she has to stop herself from crying out. He frees his other hand from under Anne's back and slowly snakes it between her legs. The cotton of her bloomers is warm and damp, and he groans as he parts the opening, and finds her soft and wet.

Anne's hips buck upward, not joyously, but hungry and needful, and she reaches for the buttons of his trousers. Gilbert pulls away and swiftly moves to the door. The key turns with a satisfying click, and he places it on the dresser. He stands there feasting on the gorgeous sight of Anne writhing half dressed on the brocade counterpane. But only for a moment.

In the next instant he kicks off his shoes and kneels upon the bed. Again Anne tries to unbutton him. Again he shifts away. But this time he grabs her hands and thrusts them above her head.

She is pinned beneath him, arching, desperate, her hips rocking with a life all their own. With one hand he removes his waistcoat and slowly peels off his shirt.

'I've thought about this for far too long. I am going to take my time, and you are going to let me.'

'Gilbert please, I need you inside me, I feel like I'm going to die…'

'Then I'll just have to kiss you back to life.'

He tears at her bloomers and dives upon her, her sweet and succulent rose. Lapping with increasing urgency, as she widens and swells under his tongue.

He lifts his head once, almost lazily. 'Do you know me now?' he says.

'Yes, no, I don't know, please don't stop…' Anne begs, and she shudders and quivers against his mouth.

He slides up her body, pressing his lips to her damp forehead. Anne can feel him, long and hard, as he lies between her legs. She bucks upward, frantically, his lips mere inches from hers. This is not the answer Gilbert wants and he slips between her thighs again, flicking his tongue over the little bud held close within her petals. She is already so sensitive, she feels as though she is about to ignite, and is almost grateful for the tiny pause when he lifts his head to say:

'I think you need another reminder.'

Long and lovely minutes later Gilbert's beard is fairly drenched and Anne lies rag-like, satiated, with not the least will to resist. He is so hard, like a ramrod, his desire only growing as Anne's every need is met. Except one. When he finally – oh God, finally – thrusts inside her, he has to bite his lip, such a glorious bellow builds in his throat. Her corset was unfastened long ago, and her chemise ripped in two, by himself or by Anne, he can't remember. He can't think of anything but the exquisite hold she has over his body. He thrusts deeper and harder, maddened by the need to get closer to her still, when her half shut eyes fly open.

'Oh be careful with me,' she murmurs, those wide eyes shining bright.

And with that look Gilbert is lost, because the hold she has over his body is nothing to her hold on his heart. He had been standing at the bedside, his hands at her hips, taking pleasure in the way his thrusts nudged her supine body further up the bed. Now he falls upon her greedily and kisses her hard on the mouth.

'Your beard smells like me,' she says shyly.

'Mmm,' he growls, 'I'm never washing it off.'

'Don't shave it off, either… I like it.'

'You do?'

'When I saw you through the window, oh I wanted you so much…'

'This much?' he says, sliding his hand under her thigh and bringing her knee by her shoulder.

He shifts his hips, and drives in even deeper. Oh yes! Oh no, he shouldn't have done that. He has brought about the end too soon, not helped by his darling girl, who rolls her head as though delirious with fever, her voice raw and low and sweet.

'Ohhh be careful... oh my love… oh Gil...'

'I will never hurt you,' he rasps against her neck.

And allowing himself one final thrust, he pulls out and releases all over her chest.

It takes a while to find the strength to lift his head to kiss her, and he is not surprised to taste warm tears on her cheek. He had come close to crying, himself. The thought of losing her, the mere idea of Anne no longer in his life, sends his stomach into one endless sinking pit.

Then just like that, at the very moment he came to believe all was well, his beloved Anne casts him into one.

'Go now,' she says, mopping herself with the torn chemise. 'If I hurry I can catch my train.'

'You're joking,' he blunders a second time.

This is no joke; the tilt of her nose and her chin tells him Anne is every intention of going. But why?

What can she tell him, that the measures he had taken to prevent pregnancy now offend her soul? Because Gilbert did not want a child, he had made that very clear.

Anne knows it is unfair to judge him for something he knows nothing about, but surely it must have occurred to him. He knew the consequences just as she did. Yet he never even asked if she bled that month.

As she thinks these things she puts buttons in wrong buttonholes and pulls two stockings over one leg. She is sitting at the dressing table, trying to fix that last mistake when Gilbert kneels at her feet.

He has thrown on his shirt and trousers, expecting her to leave. Because Anne always leaves, there will always be some part of her that must keep moving, some part he can never hold. But that won't stop him trying.

'Whatever it is, you can tell me. I can take it. Believe me. I can fix this, I _will_ fix this. I will make it right.'

'You can't fix this,' Anne says, faintly. 'And I don't want you to.'

The calm, almost dreamy assurance she felt in Avonlea, where is it now? This is awful, all of it. Her coming unannounced, that cursed hot wind, the scene in the kitchen, the interview in the library, this grandiose spare room. His snobbish Aunt and pompous Uncle, the revolting man she was sat next to, the maid who might be listening at the door, the guests all gossiping about her downstairs.

Anne never wanted it to be like this. Never imagined telling Gilbert in this way, looking upon his handsome face so stricken and confused.

'Why Anne, why don't you want me to – what was _that_ , your last goodbye?'

'Oh Gilbert, don't you know, haven't you guessed? I'm going to have your baby.'


	34. Chapter 34

_**Chapter Thirty-four**_

Gilbert answers with the age old response of all men who find out they are about to become fathers, and asks Anne if she is sure? Not because he wants Anne to be wrong (though that's an obvious assumption to make.) He asks because if he is about to become a father, if that eventuality is set in stone, then the whole direction of his life must pivot swiftly for this new destination. And that means a mountain of preparation: steady income, a secure place to live, money behind them, and family told.

'As sure as I can be,' is not exactly what he wants to hear. But he has enough basic knowledge of the secret goings on in the womb to know no one, not even the Queen of England and all her dominions, can be truly sure until the third month is passed.

'Right, well, good!' he says, kissing Anne's head absently.

His mind is already plotting a course: income, security, savings, home. The last one makes his brow crease, as he thinks of his folks and Marilla.

'Does Marilla know?'

'No one knows except you and –'

'Ma,' Gilbert finishes. 'And how did she take it?'

'She told me to tell you, but now I'm not so sure. Gilbert, you look like your head is going to twist off your neck.'

'I'm thinking, that's all.'

'There is a lot to think about.'

He looks up at her, tenderly. Anne had had more time to think about this, but she had also done that thinking alone. How many times must she have started to write to him, only to throw it away?

'To find this out in a letter and not know with my own eyes you were safe and well… I couldn't have borne it, Anne. I'm so glad you came.'

'So am I. But I really do think I should go.'

Anne shifts back on her stool and returns her stocking to its rightful leg as though they are only discussing the weather. Gilbert watches, his senses gradually returning to him as the realisation sinks in that the girl in front of him tying a garter round her shapely thigh, is carrying his baby.

'No, that won't do –' he mutters, almost to himself.

Anne looks up, puzzled.

'What won't do?'

'You can't go, not yet, not till…' and he throws his arms under her, and carries her to the bed.

'Gilbert?'

'Mmm,' he says, sliding her skirts up round her waist.

'What are you doing?'

His hands are at her corset now, and pluck at the bottom-most fastenings till he can see the soft smooth skin of her abdomen, and just below the waist of her bloomers, her perfect spiralling bellybutton.

He brings his lips to it and applies an adoring kiss.

'I am going to take care of you,' he whispers, ' and I'm going to take care of your mother. You'll see, little pearl, you'll never want for one thing.'

The warm tears that sprang from Anne's eyes before now threaten to form a permanent water feature, as she finally gives into the storm inside her and begins to weep with relief.

Gilbert lies down next to her, and slips her head onto his shoulder.

'You didn't think I'd let you down did you, is that why you were mad?'

'I don't know,' she blubs. 'I don't know what I thought. I'm happy, I'm scared, I'm excited. But I _was_ angry with you, Gil, when I read what you planned for May. I won't let you do it. Ro won't either, come to that. I'm taking her home with me.'

'What, _now?_ '

'I think I've missed the last train, but tomorrow I'm taking her home. She belongs in Avonlea… and you do too.'

At the mention of Avonlea his head whirs again: income, security, savings, home. He rolls onto his stomach and rests his face in his hands.

'I know, but not yet. I have to know if there is a chance I can salvage things here –'

'Salvage what, the contract is signed?'

'That was before they found out about you.'

'I'm sure that went down well.'

'Better than you think,' says Gilbert recalling his aunt and uncle following him out of the room; Jen pretending to be put out that she had never been invited to the wedding, David demanding to know why Gilbert kept such a secret from him. 'I answered him honestly and said I did not think he would approve of my marrying so young, and that without his approval he would never have introduced me to Eggers. I knew I wouldn't have to explain any further. Pompous sorts are all too ready to come up with excuses. No problem is insurmountable so long as it doesn't reflect badly on them. All Uncle cared about was thinking up a suitable explanation for his guests. In the end he decided he would tell them I had meant to say fiancée, not wife. I overheard Curlow proposing a toast to you.'

'And the man who got a slap around his chubby little chops?' Anne asks, worriedly.

'Eggers is lucky I didn't pop him as well. He wobbled past me near the bottom of the stairs, saying he had a headache. You do have a splendid right hook, sweetheart.'

'Let us hope I never have fresh need of it.'

Anne's fingers curl into her palm a few times that evening, but for the most part she conducts herself in a manner that would make Rachel Lynde proud. She is not meek, so much as exhausted. The heavy food at lunch, the heavier food at dinner, the day she spent traveling, the nights she had lain awake wondering if she would ever put on her carnelian ring, it had all taken its toll. Then there was her reunion with Gilbert, which began with the ridiculous and ended with the sublime, when he thought it would be a shame not to continue undressing his delectable wife and make love to her again.

'More dick, Anne?' Jen says, as the maid spoons another heaping of the pudding onto her plate.

'I couldn't possibly,' Anne says, smiling behind her glass.

'May adores spotted dick, doesn't she, Gilbert? Her one wee tooth is very definitely sweet.'

'She adores you more,' Gilbert answers his aunt, smoothly, 'and Miss Hackthorne. But since nothing more can be done for May – right now,' he adds, in a conciliatory tone; no need to make this worse by mentioning May would never be attending the Institute, 'Anne and I feel it's time to bring her home.'

Miss Hackthorne sniffs audibly.

'But her lessons,' she wheedles, her hand against her throat.

'What _lessons?_ '

'I would hardly call them that, Uncle. Miss Hackthorne and I read a few nursery rhymes to May.' Gilbert grins fondly at Anne and lays his hand on hers. 'My wife knows them all by heart. She writes them too, stories, poems… recipes for depilatory cream –' he says, hiding his a smile of his own.

' _What_ sort of cream?'

'Ah, this cream, Aunt,' Gilbert answers, grabbing the jug and pouring it over her pudding.

'This isn't funny!' Miss Hackthorne erupts.

Well, what did she have to lose? One moment she has the perfect job, with a placid little charge and the most handsome man she had ever seen. And the next moment his so called 'wife' turns up and demands that May go home. To what, a mixed crop farm in a tiny village? What chance did May have there?

'I thought you cared!' she cries and departs the table, her snubbed nose streaming and her blue eyes red and wet.

The next morning she stands in a line with the cook, the maid and the coachman, and shakes hands with Gilbert and May. But not Anne. Depilatory cream? Oh that she had some, so she could pour it all over Anne's copper-topped head!

Gilbert walks May and Anne to the station, one suitcase in each hand, Nespe's quilt and his satchel thrown over his shoulder.

'What are you going to do now?' Anne says.

She forgoes the waiting room for a bench on the platform, little May curled up in her lap. Nuzzling her lips against blonde floss, a secret smile curling them upward.

Gilbert's smile would have been not so secret had he noticed, but the cogs are already whirring again: income, security, savings, home.

'Eggers is in no mood to see me right now, and won't make a time till next week. Which gives me plenty of time to write to my folks and try to explain my version of events before Aunt Jen sends them hers.'

'Oh write it now, Gilbert, I can take it with me. I only have a penny pencil and my notebook, but surely that will do.'

'Always ready for the scoop,' Gilbert quips, licking the end of the pencil.

'Always ready for the story,' Anne says. 'I've started collecting them. That book of your mother's isn't just filled with recipes, but the most marvellous, magical tales. I wish more people knew about them. It seems such a shame to keep them bound up in the covers of that heavy ol' book.'

'I never thought of you not knowing them. I suppose you grew up inventing stories of castles and knights. I grew up with tales of talking turtles, the woman who turned into a bed of wheat. I wish you could have met Claudine, Anne, the stories she would tell you... In fact, wait right here.'

'Gilbert, where are you going, the train will be here any minute?'

Anne lays May's sleepy head on her shoulder and watches him dash across the train tracks to the post office at the end of the street.

'You didn't have to post it,' she says when he returns.

'Yes I did, Lucky thing too, the postmistress gave me this. A letter from Ma –'

'But I could have taken your note to Avonlea.'

'Sorry,' he grins, cheekily, 'but you couldn't. You and May are coming with me!'

The walk to the hill from the village presents a much easier climb. While the distance is greater, the slope is gentler, and only when they reach the second hill does Anne ask for a short rest. She rolls her travelling cloak into her suitcase and changes into her sturdy boots. Gilbert fashions a sling from his blanket and wraps it with May around Anne's back, then suitcases in hand they begin the ascent of the second hill. It all goes well until the first napkin change when May's bonnet goes flying down the hill, catching on the stiff breeze like a little white bird, and causing the wee girl to squeal.

'I'll go after it,' Anne says, 'I know it belonged to Lottie.'

Before Gilbert can argue, she leaps like a deer over a fallen log, her red hair flying out behind her.

She can be seen as far away as Gilbert's bedroom at Acacia House, where poor Miss Hackthorne stands, holding his pillow to her sad little face and dreaming of might have beens. A flash of red catches her eye, just as it caught Gilbert's once before. But this is no hat, this is fiery red hair and it can only belong to one girl.

What on earth is she doing up that hill, and where is her dear little May? She may never find out now, her service is over, and stuffing the pillowslip into her valise, Miss Hackthorne reluctantly leaves the room.

'Anne!' Gilbert calls.

'I'm here!' she says, appearing with pink cheeked triumph, the lacy bonnet in her hand.

'Don't rush off again, the terrain up here is trickier than you think.'

Anne pretends to feel shamefaced, and saunters up close, till her nose brushes over his chin. She looks up at him, all bright-eyed and breathless, and loosens two buttons at her neck.

'Were you worried about me?' she teases.

He answers frankly yes.

'How worried?' she continues, running her hands over the curve of his backside, up his slim hips, to his chest.

'You're making this very hard, Anne –'

'Let's hope so –'

'We have to think of little May.'

Anne peers past his broad shoulder to the seven month old baby watching leaf shadows play over her hands.

'True,' she says, 'but later when she is tucked up tight, promise you will only think of me.'

May has been tucked up for over an hour now, on a mossy bed spread with Anne's underthings, and wrapped in Nepse's blanket; blowing raspberries in a shelter made of spruce branches, and utterly refusing to sleep. Anne, who removed her heavy travelling dress to freshen up in the spring, lies on her own mossy bed by the fire, in a fresh chemise and nothing else. She calls it her nightgown. Gilbert calls it torture; why won't May sleep?

'Does it matter?' Anne says, rolling onto her side, the neck of her chemise falling open. 'She doesn't know what we're doing, only that we love each other.'

'But she might see something.'

'Such conventional thinking, Blythe; Acacia House has rubbed off on you. What do you think people did before they had grand houses, when everyone lived in one room?'

She kneels up and slips off his unbuttoned shirt, kissing his nipples softly.

'They ran off to the barn or the woods – uh!' he shivers as her fire-warmed hand slides down his chest to the fine line of hair below his naval.

'So many trails on this hill, I wonder where this one goes…'

'Anne!'

'The woods, you say?' she says, pretending not to notice that his hazel eyes have become quite black. 'What about in the winter, when they had to keep warm…'

Her hand has encircled him now, and she pushes him back easily and releases him from his trousers, working him up and down.

'If he was desperate he might build her a house of snow,' he mutters thickly, all but giving into her now.

She shifts higher and hovers above him. He can feel the heat of her skin and lets out a tiny whimper.

'And were you desperate last Christmas, when you built a house of snow for me?'

'Mmm,' he mutters, lifting his hips, trying to get nearer to her.

'Sorry, what was that?' Anne says, bending her ear to his lips.

'You know I was,' he manages to say, as she brushes against the tip of him.

'Will you build me another house, one day?' she asks him sweetly, sinking down one blissful inch.

His hands go under her chemise and grab roughly at her hips.

'Anne, I could build one now and never have need of a hammer.'

'I'm sure you could,' Anne says, smiling down at him, 'you've always been good with your hands…'

He wakes just before dawn, the place he had chosen offered good shelter, but the dew that formed in the early hours covered everything like a damp blanket. Anne had wriggled into May's little hut, her travelling cloak over them both. Gilbert shivers in his jacket and stokes up the fire. He can't sleep, the flames need minding, and besides he is cold. Remembering his Ma's letter, he sets the pot and coffee-grounds he bought at Carter Flaggs, on the edge of the fire.

The letter starts the way it usually does: an update on her latest batch, his opinion sought on tinctures or teas, her assurance that his father missed him greatly and looked forward to having their own celebration for Blythe's Best Balm. The next page was dated a couple of days later, but that was not unusual for Ma, who wrote letters like they were ongoing conversations. It is the subject that causes his hair to stand on end. When Anne comes up behind him he nearly jumps.

'The coffee is about to turn into sludge, that's not like you,' she says, nuzzling her cheek over his beard. 'You know May is still asleep and I am very cold –'

'Davy's been to Ma's place,' Gilbert cuts in.

'What,' Anne frowns, 'did he break into the cottage?'

Gilbert shakes his head.

'Nothing so dramatic, in fact Ma sounds quite sorry for him, but the whole thing sets my hair on end.'

Anne is about to say his curly mop didn't need any help with that, but the look on Gilbert's face says he is in no mood to laugh.

'What does Ro say?'

'Here,' says Gilbert, handing her the last page, 'you can read it.'

 _...was writing up the last label when Davy Rossi came knocking at the cottage door. I barely recognised him without his red jacket. It turns out Ruby was right, he has been privateering. He dumped a load of money on my desk and ordered me to make up more of that garlic and tea leaf remedy._

 _I said I didn't have any garlic to hand and that he would have to call back later. He got upset then. I insisted on examining him, and Gilbert he was in a right mess._ _He said there was no way he could see Ruby like this, and I couldn't help but agree. I knew it was a risk and I knew you would hate the idea, but I offered him a place on your old bed. I just wanted to keep him in Avonlea, so Ruby might see him again. With Marilla gone, and Anne leaving, I know the poor girl will be feeling low._

 _Well John didn't take too kindly to our hosting Davy, he's not in the best mood, not now he knows about Anne. I do hope she arrives before this letter, or you'll wonder what I mean. We ended up having words about it as I was heading through the orchard. I tried to make him hold his tongue, but you know your father._

 _I was worried Davy might have heard something, but it all came to nothing in the end. When I passed through the hedge and opened the door, Davy was gone._

 _'_ Not to Ruby's I take it?' Anne says, looking up from the letter. 'Why does he always run?'

Gilbert starts poking the fire again.

'You'd have a better answer than me.'

'Gilbert, I didn't run from you, I ran _to_ you,' she says, hoping to bring out his smile again.

Her hand goes to his jaw and she tries to meet his eyes, then draws back warily, so utterly unprepared for the raw and secret dread she finds there.

'Please don't joke, Anne, especially now... With you, with our little pearl.'

He throws the envelope into the fire, silent as it burns. Anne can tell he is trying to find the words. When he does, they come out strained, almost hoarse.

'I'm going to give you everything that's in me,' he utters, taking her hand. 'I'm going to work so hard. All I ask in return is that you don't leave. I couldn't stand it. If you were gone, if I couldn't get to you, to our baby... I'll break, Anne. It will break me. I'm telling you now so you know.'

She leans towards him and cradles his face, bringing his head to hers. The idea that he could feel as vulnerable as she did is something she had almost forgotten. He is so strong, so brave, so adaptable, so ready to jump into the fray. And he had. He had cut his thumb and promised himself and made a child with her.

Their secret world is coming to an end, this time on the hill would mark their very last days. Anne knows this now, and she loves him for it, she also knows what she has to do.

'We'll marry properly,' she says, 'just as soon as we can, before you go back to school.'

Gilbert's brows shoot up.

'You don't mind me going back?'

'Not if that's what you truly want. Ro is happy to keep me on as her apprentice, and I am happy because it inspires me to write.'

Gilbert slides his arm around Anne and pretends to consider this, running his tongue round his teeth.

'And did you say May was still sleeping?'

'Yes, I did – ah Blythe! Your hands are freezing!'

 **...**

 _* spotted dick is a traditional English pudding made from suet and dried fruit_


	35. Chapter 35

**_Chapter Thirty-five_**

May finishes the last of the goat's milk that morning, and chomps on her one little tooth, hoping for more.

'Right, let's see what Gilbert got for you,' Anne says, digging through his satchel.

Last night they ate baked potatoes with a precious pat of butter bought from Carter Flagg's. (They had each other for dessert).

'Cornmeal of course, lard, soap, salt, oats… ugh condensed milk. Tins of the stuff!'

'For May,' Gilbert says, 'it's impossible to keep milk fresh up here.'

'You had better serve it to her then – even the label makes me feel ill. That's all we had the Asylum; condensed milk on bread, and salted beef on Sunday with a cabbage leaf on top.'

'Sounds like prison food.'

Anne leaves the bag and goes to the fire, the fresh, young branches sizzling and popping. When she lived with the Hammonds she used to say green wood was the only thing that talked to her.

'It wasn't a prison, not really. But it felt like one... to me.'

He never knows how to respond when she says such things, all he knows is that he is glad she does.

'I nearly bought some salted beef, but I plan on trapping some rabbit, maybe snare a bird. Those tins weighed a tonne, I wish I'd known you didn't like it,' Gilbert mutters, shoving them back into his satchel.

'No reason why you should,' Anne says, mildly. 'Everyone enjoys condensed milk, if I was Ruby Gillis I would be polishing off the second tin.'

Gilbert sets some oats in a pot of water, then settles next to Anne.

'You're not calling her Ruby Rossi, then?'

'To her face we do. All Avonlea tipping their hat and calling out, "Good day, young Mrs Rossi!" It's like the dinner we had with your Aunt and Uncle last night; everyone making nice and pretending everything is fine. Isn't it strange? We spend our lives in fear of being cast out and disapproved of, and when we do something to ensure just that, people turn the other way and pretend it never happened.'

'Not always. Margaret's father threw her out. '

'Ah, but she was pregnant.'

'Sweetheart, so are you.'

'I know,' Anne sighs, wrapping her arms round her knees. 'I don't care about Pyes or Sloanes, they'll always disapprove of me. But Marilla does. I know she'll find it hard to come to terms with what I chose to do. I never gave much thought to how loving you could hurt the people I love. Now I don't know what will worry her more: coming back from Sweden and finding out I have a husband, or coming back and finding out I don't.'

'When does Marilla get back?'

'The end of August, just over four weeks from now.'

Gilbert takes his hand from Anne's and starts counting on his hand.

'…March,' he says at finger number nine. 'That's your birthday.'

'I know. I'll become a mother at the same age my mother did.'

'And what do you think she would have wanted for you?'

Anne stares into the fire for a moment, her pink lips pulled in tight. The oats plop gently in their pot, and May chews on her chubby fist.

'I think…' Anne begins, handing May her rattle, 'I think she would have wanted to be there with me on my wedding day – and father. Oh Gilbert,' she says, and turns to him. 'I want to wait, I want Marilla and Diana and everyone I love to be at our wedding.'

Gilbert gives the oats a stir, when he sits back he lets go a long breath.

'That will depend.'

'On what?'

'On whether Marilla decides to let me live after I ask her for permission.'

Anne's mouth flies open and she bundles her hands under her chin.

'You'd _do_ that?'

'I told you, I'm going to give you everything that's in me. And that means facing up to Marilla too…'

Gilbert runs his hands through his curls, then grips the back of his neck till his knuckles go white. That was going to be one hell of an interview, and he heaves another sigh, before adding, cheekily:

'Though if we happen by a parson on this hill, I'd just as soon marry you now.'

Anne grins. 'We _are_ married, in the truest way we can be. A wedding on the other hand, that is something I want to give to those dearest to our hearts. No running away, remember?' she asks him, pressing her thumb against his.

Gilbert grins back.

'No running away.'

After breakfast they pack up, return the moss to its shady places, and put out the fire. The wind picks up and dries up the dew in a matter of minutes, and soon they are pulling off layers and putting on rosy blooms.

Gilbert wants to find somewhere warmer and drier, but also near a water source, and by lunch time they discover a site they know will make an excellent camp.

'Someone was here before us,' Anne says, eyeing a ring of blackened rocks that once held a fire.

'That'll be Claudine and Sark. I hoped we might find them up here. I wrote to Ma not to expect you till Friday. We've still got plenty of time.'

How quickly it slips through their fingers. The evening meal is already over and Anne is rocking May in the hammock she made from her petticoat. It sits low between two small trees, and she kneels at the baby's bedside and hums softly.

Gilbert has just finished writing up some notes about a silvery sort of fungus. He stirs condensed milk into fresh boiled coffee, and smiles. They could do this, they really could; it wasn't hard. A few provisions, a couple of blankets, a knife, a flint, a pot. Just like the first people who lived here; yes it is exactly like that.

Perhaps it is thinking of them that summons them. Perhaps he thought of them because he sensed they were near. Whatever it is, Gilbert isn't surprised when he hears two sets of feet approaching – though knowing them they made this noise to warn of their arrival. Sark and Claudine can walk on eggshells and never make a sound.

'Fast work,' Sark says, nodding at the girl and the baby.

'I'm Anne,' she says, nodding back.

'Guessed as much. Wouldn't stop jawin' about you, would you, Blanket?'

Gilbert rolls his eyes and gestures Anne's name to Claudine. Soon the two women are sitting by the two small trees, hands moving quickly and excitedly.

'Can't shut these women up,' Sark jokes. 'That coffee I smell? Mmmm condensed milk too. You're livin' like a king up here.'

And they do. For the rest of the day and the day after, they live like kings of old: hunting, feasting, telling tales, their hill like a tower, the starry skies their finery and jewels.

That evening May lies in Claudine's lap. Earlier, the wee girl discovered she did not like choke berries and covered two pages in Gilbert's notebook with purple coloured spittle. She was still in shock that the good sweet world she had become accustomed to could suddenly turn so cruel. And is now wrapped tightly in her blanket, Claudine tracing her fingers over the finely embroidered shapes: the moon, the sun, the star, the triangle.

Anne sits cross legged opposite her, furiously writing in her notebook. Claudine had just finished telling the story of The Maid in the Mist, Gilbert doing his best to translate, much to Sark's amusement. Secretly he thought the boy caught on fast, but he is too busy sucking on a rabbit bone to tell him so.

Anne puts down her pencil and makes an Anne-ish sigh.

'It reminds me of the story of Deidre of the Sorrows; young lovers hiding away.'

'I know that one,' Sark pipes up. 'My mother's mother was one of _your_ people,' he says, giving Gilbert a wink. 'From the Highlands. Clever folk, fast and strong. Stole cattle from other clans with the same skill and cunning as my father's tribe – 'course they all stole horses. I'll tell you the story of my grandfather one day, who managed to steal a thousand horses from the Chippewa in one night.'

Claudine begins signing, asking Gilbert if Sark is boasting about his grandfather again. Gilbert laughs.

'It _was_ a thousand,' Sark protests. 'I have a blanket like this,' and he touches his hand over May's, 'with a thousand horse hooves stitched upon it.'

'So these horses all had one leg?' Gilbert teases.

Anne gives her pencil a thoughtful suck.

'What do they mean, those symbols, why do your women spend so many hours decorating cloth like that?' she asks.

'Same reason your women knit shapes and patterns into your Fair Isle socks and Aran vests.'

'Ooh,' Anne says, leaning forward, her grey eyes wide. 'And why's that?'

Sark laughs. 'To show off!'

'Pardon?'

'A woman likes to prove her skill every bit as much as a man does. She likes to look nice, likes her man and her children to look nice, likes to set her people apart from other tribes.'

'And that's _it?_ '

'Sure they have meanings, but the meanings came after. The same way our Creator made the world, then we went round naming it. That blanket of May's, that triangle there,' he says, poking his finger at it, 'that ain't Mi'qkmak, that came from some Missionary who translated the bible into our language so my people could read it.'

'I want to do that,' Anne says quietly. 'I want to collect stories from all over Canada and create a book that everyone can read.'

'You _should_ do that,' Sark agrees. 'You tell a good story. That one about the stubborn girl who would rather drown than be rescued when a boy rowed by, I liked that one.'

'Sam Sark, that wasn't a story, I was telling you how Gilbert and I became friends.'

'More than friends, I think.' Sark grins, and lies back, folding his arms behind his head and gazing up at the stars. 'There he is, ol' Hercules. I liked that story too. We have lots of stories about girls marrying stars. Oh, they would have scratched each other's eyes out to get to a man like that. You know Anne, you _should_ collect stories, write 'em down before we forget. This boy here,' he says, nudging Gilbert's boot, 'could come with you, collect all them medicine stories that fascinate him so much –'

'They're not stories, Sark, they're recipes, I'm interested in healing.'

Sark smiles to himself and says softly, 'She is too, you fool.'

They wake late that morning, and begin packing up their camp, grateful May is still sleeping. Her little body curled up like a ball in the hammock. The tins of condensed milk are all empty, mostly thanks to Sark, and are stuffed with herbs and roots, and seed heads, mostly thanks to Gilbert.

Anne and Claudine hug for a long time. Sark and Gilbert shakes hands. Then they go to the tree to wake May, and return the petticoat she sleeps on to its owner. Anne is collecting her napkins that were laid over a Bluebeard bush in order to get them dry. They smell of juniper and woodsmoke and small purplish flowers, and remind Anne of the stone cottage.

She is smiling and humming and holding the napkins to her breast when Gilbert dashes over. His brown face had gone quite grey and his eyes are crushed with a frown.

'Where is May, someone put a rock in the hammock!'

'What do you mean a rock? I don't understand.'

Sark, who had been searching the trees nearby, approaches them and shakes his head.

'Wee one's gone. Vanished. Up in smoke. Vamoosed.'

The napkins fall from Anne's arms and her legs go to water. She almost asks Gilbert to carry her; the twenty steps it takes to reach the hammock feel like twenty miles. The hammock is empty, a large rock dropped beneath it, which Gilbert had picked up pointlessly, somehow thinking May might be hiding behind it.

Claudine comes up behind them and signs that May's suitcase is gone.

'But not the blanket,' Anne says clutching it. 'They left the blanket behind. She'll be cold and frightened. Oh dear God, oh May!'

She falls to her knees, the wave of dizziness bringing her down with a thud, and she retches into the dirt.

'Anne, are you well?' Gilbert mutters, eyes wild.

'Find her,' Anne pleads with him. 'Find her now!'

For the next hour four desperate people search atop the hill. Sark is sure only one person took her; Gilbert reckons they didn't wear shoes. Claudine thinks it must have been a woman, because she thought to take May's suitcase with her.

Napkins,' she signs, 'change a clothes. Man wouldn't think of that.'

Anne and Gilbert look at each other.

'Miss Hackthorne!' they say together.

'She wouldn't, would she? I know she loved May, but to steal her. How did she even know we were here?'

'She knew I was here,' Gilbert says. 'I told Aunt Jen I would go for another hike after I saw the two of you off. Oh Anne, if only I'd let you go, she'd be safe at home with Ma.'

'Don't think about that, think about how we are going to find May, that's all that matters now.'

'We have to go back. Sark says he'll camp out another few days and keep searching. We should return to my uncle's, find out Miss Hackthorne's address. If Claudine's right, this could be over very soon.'

Adrenaline gets them down the hill, a cab gets them to Acacia House. Gilbert finds the doctor and his wife at the piano, when he bowls in they almost don't recognise him.

'The state of you!' David utters.

'Uncle please, we need your help.'

Anne appears a few steps behind, and drops into the closest chair. This gets the doctor's attention; the girl looks very unwell.

'Are you faint, have you been drugged, Gilbert, what is the matter with Anne?'

It doesn't take long to explain. The interrogation he endured at Green Gables taught him to keep his words brief and clear. When he finishes, Jen is in the chair beside Anne, her handkerchief clutched to her face. When Gilbert mentions Miss Hackthorne, she gives an incredulous cackle, revealing her disdain for the notion that someone she hired could be capable of something like this.

'Isobel? Never! She wouldn't hurt a hair on that little one's head. How could you even suggest such a thing, Gilbert? This is your fault and yours alone!'

As Jen says this she looks at Anne. It is clear where the fault truly lies. If not for this girl turning up and demanding May for herself, her sweet baby would now be waking up from her three o' clock nap.

David, however, sees sense in Gilbert's suspicion and orders Fanny to send word for Miss Hackthorne. Gilbert suggests sending for the constable but David won't agree to that, and feels a certain vindication when the nanny arrives promptly an hour later, flushed with excitement to find Gilbert there.

Her face drops when she sees Anne.

'What are you doing here? I saw you on the hill not three nights ago, when you were supposed to be going home!'

'Yes, Gilbert, what _is_ she doing here?' Jen adds, glaring at Anne again. 'You told me they were returning to Avonlea, and now Anne turns up declaring she _lost_ May!'

'I didn't lose her, you don't understand. We all went exploring on the hills behind your house –'

' _All?_ ' Jen snaps. 'Who else was with you? Why aren't you asking them were May is?'

Anne is about to answer, and then clamps her mouth shut when she notices Gilbert give the mildest shake of his head.

She doesn't discover why for at least an hour, when Miss Hackthorne is being interviewed. David finally saw sense and decided to call for professional assistance; a plain-clothes detective from Charlottetown whom he happened to know was investigating the theft of his neighbour's prize bull. To David's consternation Detective McKay calls for the Glen's one constable when he finds out the full details of the crime. Kidnapping is a felony. If the suspect is in Acacia House they will be leaving it in cuffs.

Gilbert holds Anne close to him, and tries to get her to drink.

'I didn't want to mention Sark and Claudine, unless things get desperate. If they find out May was in the company of Indians you know what they might do.'

'Yes, Indians and orphans have fearsome reputations –'

'Anne listen to me. Sark and Claudine are safe. You are safe, I promise you. I won't let anything happen to you, forget what Jen and Isobel said.'

'But they are saying the same to the detective right now, how could they think such things of me?'

'Jen's afraid. She loves May, you know that, this came as a shock to her, too. She's looking for someone to blame, just as we did –'

'But it _has_ to be Miss Hackthorne, Gilbert, she admitted herself she saw me on the hill. _She_ thought I had May, _she_ wanted to keep her, it has to be her, it _must_ be!'

'My love, please try and quieten yourself, think of our little pearl.'

He looks up in dismay to see the constable enter and request Anne accompany him to the dining room.

Anne wobbles for a moment and reaches for Gilbert's hand.

'May I go with her, Anne feels unwell?'

'You had your interview,' the constable says. 'The girl comes with me.'

Gilbert's interview lasted twenty minutes, the doctor and his wife, a little less than that, and Miss Hackthorne's half an hour. It is now almost eight o'clock and Anne is still being questioned.

'What the hell can be taking so long, what are they asking her that they didn't ask me!'

'Language!' David chides.

His wife sniffs.

'They have to be thorough, Gilbert. Do you want May found or not?'

Isobel Hackthorne enters the parlour now, holding out a cup of tea.

'Gilbert, you haven't eaten a thing, you must keep up your strength.'

Gilbert eyes the cup as though it holds henbane.

'Don't talk to me,' he mutters coldly, 'not after what you said to Anne.'

'Gilbert!' Jen exclaims, as Miss Hackthorne flees the room. 'You should go after her,' she insists, 'nothing Isobel said was any worse than what Anne said about her.'

'You go after her,' Gilbert snaps, his eyes never leaving the door to the dining room. 'This is too much, Anne isn't well, I told them that, why are they taking so long?'

He is answered in the next second when the door to the dining room swings open. Later when Gilbert thinks back on this moment, what he'll remember most is how the air he breathed had turned into mud. His head had turned, his eyes locked on Anne who looked tiny, exhausted, helpless, her slender arms held in front of her. While he just stood there feeling as if he was being swallowed.

It takes so long to take in what he is seeing Anne has passed him before he can move his feet. His hands reach for hers, and the iron manacles that bind her wrists. His eyes about to leave their sockets, his tongue thick and useless in his mouth.

Anne starts crying and shaking her head.

'Tell them, Gilbert, please!'

'Out the way, everyone,' the detective says, marching out ahead.

'What are you doing,' Jen protests, 'you can't do this!'

The constable grunts. He is easily the size of Adam Wright, but with an even pricklier temperament. Oh the high and mighty, forever demanding he be hard on crime – except when it comes to _their_ lot. Well, they can forget any special treatment from him, and he prods Anne toward the door.

Anne looks back over her shoulder, half in fear for herself, half in fear of what Gilbert might do. He rushes up behind her and wraps his arms round her waist.

'You're not taking her, you've made a mistake, let her go, damn you, let her go!'

A dull pain hits Gilbert next as the constable strikes him hard. The sort of blow Fred Wright was schooled in, a truncheon to the gut. He can't catch his breath – which is precisely the point – and he falls like a sack of sand to the floor.

'Good God man,' David utters, getting to his feet, 'there's no need for that!'

Anne is in the foyer now, Gilbert's name lodged in her throat. If she says it again she knows he will come, she also knows they will hurt him. When she hears his boots clatter over polished tiles she almost shouts out no. Then Gilbert flings himself onto the constable's back. It's a frantic, desperate move, but then so is he. All he knows he has to stop this happening, he has to give Anne a chance to break away. She can run, she can do it. What she cannot do is spend any length of time in a cell. Not when she is sick with fear for May. Not when she is pregnant. Not when that thug has power over her. Not when Gilbert knows Anne is terrified of being held against her will.

'You are not taking her!' he cries, the truncheon striking his head.

The constable gives him another just to make sure, then orders the coachman quivering in the doorway to haul Gilbert into his wagon.

Gilbert comes to a minute later. There is something sticky in his eye and everything is black. He realises now he is in the back of a wagon, and flings himself at the door. His wrist burns, and his ribs, but he doesn't care, such an animal rage has him now. The door won't come open, he can't see, he can't breathe and falls back and tries to mop his face.

He is lying on his back when he sees it, a sliver of light in the dark. Those dreams he had are all coming true, and he no longer knows if this is real.

The door flies open and she is there, Anne is there, her arms out in front of her and reaching for him as though her bones could stretch like vines. He gets to his knees and smiles with relief, his thumb just touching hers. Only now does he see her face, contorted in a scream, as the detective pulls her away, carrying her under one arm, his lantern hanging from the other.

The constable lumbers over now, his face in a sneer. His lands a blow on Gilbert's arm, and another by his ear, before the light of the lantern disappears and the wagon door is bolted shut.

Gilbert falls against it and lets out such a cry, David and Jen can hear him from the parlour and are sure he is being murdered. Sobs wrack his body as Anne calls out his name, and he flings himself against the door.

He has to get to her.

He can do this

He can do this...

Then the wagon starts moving, and darkness claims him again.

...

 _* condensed milk was considered a 'wonder food' because it was long lasting and contained lots of calories. The first condensery factory in Canada was built in N.S. in 1871_

 _* Chippewa is another name for Ojibwe_


	36. Chapter 36

**_Chapter thirty-six_**

The constable lets him stew for twenty-four hours. He can't hold Gilbert any longer than that without charging him. And while he is would like to – the lad did leap onto his back – he knows he won't. Not with his father pacing the porch of the two room station house. John Blythe looks like a man who could snap his truncheon in two.

Consequently, he makes himself scarce when the Glen's one cell is unlocked. Gilbert stands up expecting the constable's leering face, to find the door swinging open and the station house empty. He wanders tentatively into the office, one hand stuffed in his pocket the other held under his arm. His wrist hurts, and his side, which makes him walk in a limp. When he sees his father it is hard to know which one starts blubbing first.

'What have they done to you, oh my boy, this ain't right…'

John wraps his arms around him tightly, he feels Gilbert flinch but he doesn't care. He has to hold him, has to have his son within his own protection. The bumps and bruises can wait.

'When did you get here, how did you know?' Gilbert mumbles against his father's shoulder.

John wipes his eyes on the back of his shirtsleeve.

'Uncle David wired me last night, said to come straight away. Hell's teeth,' he says hoarsely, 'the journey was worse than the ride back to your mother last Christmas. I knew if I didn't get to you in time you'd set after Anne the moment you were released.'

At the mention of her name Gilbert's eyes go wide and a shiver bores through to his bones.

'Where is she, have they released her yet, has anyone been to see her?'

John shakes his head. He had been waiting for this question, and has no idea how Gilbert will take the news. Still he has to be told, and the sooner the better, the last day must have passed like a century for him.

'She's been taken to Charlottetown. They don't have a place for women prisoners here. They put her on a train under escort last night.'

'We have to go, we have to go right now –'

Gilbert pushes past his father and shuffles to the door.

John yanks him back, and if it hurts him good. The boy needed to snap out of his panic and start thinking with his head.

'You better let me go…' Gilbert mutters.

'Or what?' John says. 'For pities sake, Gilbert, you should see yourself. You think the Charlottetown police will let you get within fifty feet of Anne? THINK!'

'I _can't_ think –'

'And that is why you're not ready. You're _not_ ready to be her husband, and you are _surely_ not ready to be a father –'

'She needs me!' Gilbert yells at him.

'And what can you give her, just what do you propose to do? You have no idea, do you? Well I'm telling you, Gilbert, a father makes sure he knows what he's doing, because a father has more to consider than just himself _–_ '

'I suppose that's why you came here? So you could rub it in – that I failed her when she needed me – I _failed_ her, Pa – I failed her!'

He has pulled free of his father now, though in truth it is John that let him go, let him rage, let him cry and kick every chair and waste basket in the vicinity till the anger burns itself out.

Gilbert falls against the wall of the office, weeping brokenly as he slides to the floor.

'I don't know what to do, Pa, help me, help me please…'

There aren't words to describe what it does to a father to see his own boy, bruised and bleeding at the hands of another, fall to the ground and break. All John wants to do is hunt down the constable and offer him the chance of an equal fight. Not that he would take it, the weasel. He hopes Adam's boy doesn't turn out like this. Bitterness will do that, but John has no time for bitterness when his son is begging for his help.

He swallows down a sob of his own and extends his great square hand.

'Now you're thinking like a man. Get to your feet, son, we're leaving.'

According to John a man is a man when he knows his place in the world; when he knows what he can do for himself, and when he needs the skills of someone else. And right now Gilbert needs a hand: David to patch him up, and his lawyer chum to get Anne out of this fix. John is nervous about this last one. He knows from Gilbert's letters about the lawyer who wrote up the contract with Eggers. He also knows his name. It was common enough; John told himself it was almost certainly not the same fellow – until Gilbert mentioned his interest in botany.

John is put of out his misery fairly quickly. Paul Irving has already been summoned to Acacia House, and greets him in the parlour. He was unnaturally beautiful the first time John met him, and cuts a clean-cut, stylish figure today.

Gilbert is directed to David's study to be cleaned up and bound, and only hears the end of their conversation, when Mr Irving asks after Rowena. John Blythe isn't much of a talker, but he goes so unnaturally quiet Gilbert feels it is up to him to respond.

'My mother is well, sir, thank you for asking.' He frowns then, and just as quickly wishes he hadn't, his eyebrow is bruised and sore. 'Sorry, I – I know this might sound strange, Mr Irving, but –'

'You're going to ask me if I knew her, Gilbert. Yes I did, we grew up together as children, before my family moved away.'

'Primula villosa?'

'I b-beg your pardon?' Paul stammers, looking sideways at John.

'The Alpine flower,' Gilbert answers, with growing excitement. 'The hairy primula. You planted it, on the hillside of the Sunrise Garden. My mother said you would return when it bloomed. Look!'

Gilbert digs into his satchel. He had left it in the parlour yesterday, which went to show how ruffled David and Jen were; on any other night it would have been scrubbed clean and returned to his room. He brings out his notebook, thumbing through the pages till he finds the copy of the drawing he made. Suddenly he starts to laugh – a short dry, Ha! – and Paul and John who had been wary of each other, find common ground as they puzzle over the beaten boy.

'Son, are you feeling dizzy?' John says, worriedly.

'It _is_ blooming, May made the flower bloom!'

The two men study the page he is pointing at, a smudgy ink study covered in dried up purple spit.

'Rowena remembered,' Paul says fondly. 'Well in that case, I shall do all I can to help.'

As if he wasn't going to do that anyway. He waives his fee for the same reason, though Jen and David are eager to pay for all and any costs that might incur in order to bring Anne and May back.

Jen in particular is heartsick over what has happened and blames herself for Anne being charged.

'Dear boy, forgive me. I am a foolish old woman who wanted May for herself. I said some spiteful things to the detective, and I know Miss Hackthorne did too. I wish to God I could take it back, I wish I could have gone in her place. I'm so angry knowing May is still out there and the confounded police have the wrong person.'

'And you are certain it is not Miss Hackthorne?' Gilbert says curtly.

'Miss Hackthorne never left her father's house. Her family, her neighbours, can all attest she never went further than the gate since she left here.'

'Then who did this?' Gilbert says.

Paul shakes his head. John clears his throat.

'Let's get going. Gilbert, get your things. Uncle has loaned us his driver and coach.'

They arrive in Charlottetown just after midnight; Paul takes them to his house. A stately cream stone building smothered in ivy, with windows six feet tall. Gilbert would have whistled in appreciation had his lip not been so fat. John clicks his tongue. There are gorgeous works in oils and water-colours all over the walls, and photographs of London Bridge, Victoria Falls, las Lajas, the Sphinx, the Matterhorn. No wife however. No children. This makes John's mood even worse.

Not until he is about to fall asleep does Gilbert dare ask his father why he seems so glum. The situation isn't hopeless. Mr Irving is optimistic about obtaining Anne's release; in as little as eight hours she might be in his arms again. Pa was right, he did need help. And now that Gilbert has it he feels strong again. It doesn't make sense to see his father so sullen, what is it that he knows?

He climbs into bed in a nightshirt that he never wears, and punches at the pillow. There is so much goose-down in it, his fist barely makes a dent. His father lies next to him, his tired face creased with a frown. This is his second day travelling and he is longing for some sleep.

'You've met Mr Irving before, haven't you, Pa? Did you know him as a boy?'

John tugs at the quilt.

'He was younger than me, same age as your mother. They used to be very close.'

Gilbert swears his father sounds jealous. He wants to ask if him why, but he is also nursing enough bruises right now, so he says:

'That was years back.'

'Wasn't that long since I saw him,' John retorts. 'Ten years, as I recall.'

'Ten years ago you and I went to Alberta. Are you saying Mr Irving came back then?'

'He did,' John answers, and is silent for a time.

His giant of a father seems shrunken, smaller, or perhaps it is just the overstuffed quilt.

'Paul read about your sister in the papers, wanted to see if your Ma was all right. _I_ knew what he wanted though. He wanted _my_ wife.'

'But Pa, they were children when they made that promise.'

'That's what I told him. I said he wasn't to try and see her, that she was lost in a world of grief and his coming would only confuse matters. So he left. I saw him off myself... And felt wrong about it ever since.'

'Wrong?'

Ignoring his sore ribs Gilbert rolls closer. He has never heard his father admit he was wrong about anything. John, it seems feel the same way, because it all comes out in a rush, as if this had been building inside him for years; truly Gilbert has never heard his Pa utter so many words in a row.

'Ro always had a soft spot for him, wondered what he'd made of himself. Then a week after Lottie's funeral he turned up, this educated gentleman and handsome as a thirty dollar pony. I couldn't help think she might have been happier with him, 'specially back then. I couldn't get near her, she had wrapped herself in grief so thick, nothing I said or did could get through. The thought of Paul Irving making Ro smile... I couldn't bear it, not when I was about to leave. So I made _him_ leave. And now I come here to his big ol' house with no wife, no children in it and I can't help feel ashamed. Maybe he's still pining for her, maybe he could have made your Ma smile. And I made him stay away because _I_ wanted to be her rock and no one else –'

'But Pa –'

'Don't talk me out of what I know, Gil. I know who I am and I raised you just the same. I know you want to be the one to rush the gates and save Anne. But you can't, you just can't.'

The pillow takes another punch, then Gilbert falls back on it, and stares hard at the ceiling. There are white plaster cherubs and ribbons and leaves, and he thinks of the house he had promised Anne.

'I vowed to protect her when I can't even protect myself. Do you think – tomorrow, if we manage to get Anne released – do you think she will forgive me?'

John chuckles, and tugs the quilt up to his chin.

'Sometimes Gilbert, I wonder how you won all those prizes and whatnot. You sure do say the dumbest things. If Anne Shirley's not beating the door down to get to you, it's because she already kicked it in.'

In the morning the Blythes wake to the sound of two people arguing. One of them, the woman Paul later describes as his secretary, demanding to know where Paul disappeared to, and why he didn't come home again until the following night! Gilbert is already in a foul mood, his body aches and he finds it hard to get comfortable with his wrist in a sling. To be woken so rudely makes him yank his massive pillow over his head.

His father, however, is in very high spirits. He has been to the bathroom and shaved and bathed and looks years younger than yesterday.

'Up you get, slug-a-bed! Big day for you, today!'

Gilbert rolls out slowly and starts stuffing his nightshirt into his trousers.

'Oh no you don't. Put on a shirt and tie, like me.'

Only now does Gilbert notice his father is dressed in his Sunday best, down to his fob watch glowing softly in the light peeping in through the curtains.

'You look a real gent,' Gilbert says, yawning and scratching his beard.

'Well I want to look nice for your mother when I go back today.'

Gilbert shrugs and seeks out the bathroom. Paul said there were two on this floor, one for his clients (his office was downstairs) and one for his guests. One guest in particular looked like she had been staying for a while. Her robe, her slippers, her hairpins and her long red ribbons lie in various corners of the room. A beautiful young woman appears now, the same young woman who had been quarrelling earlier, who makes his apologies, retrieves her ribbons and leaves the room. So that's why John was grinning just now. Paul Irving wasn't lonely at all.

'I am sorry about Miss West,' Paul says, as they make their way to Charlottetown police station, 'she had no idea you were there.'

'Ro's just the same,' John blurts, unthinkingly, 'Doesn't like me inviting people over without asking her first.'

'Well yes, quite,' Paul agrees, and fixes his top hat to his head. 'Please remain here, Mr Blythe,' he says next. 'Gilbert you stay here, too.'

'Oh, he's not going anywhere, are you Gilbert?'

Gilbert nods, then as soon as Paul disappears around the corner, opens the carriage door.

'What are you doing, have you learned nothing? We need Mr Irving for this, do you want to see Anne again or not?'

Gilbert wriggles in his seat, his knee jiggling up and down. His Pa was back to being right and that has to bode well. In a matter of minutes Anne could be free. He does not let himself think on the other possibility. Even Paul thinks the police will release her, especially now Gilbert has told him about Claudine and Sark. Not only can they be called in as witnesses, Paul also suspects they led to Anne's arrest. If she had mentioned that they were with her on the hill, and Gilbert had not, the detective would have known someone was lying. And as Miss Hackthorne only saw Anne running into the woods, and the doctor and his wife both mentioned her striking Eggers, Anne became the obvious suspect.

Paul appears half an hour later, ducking his head inside the coach and removing his tall black hat.

'Success. The police have dropped the charge now they know there are other witnesses besides Gilbert, who can attest to her whereabouts when May went missing. Miss Shirley has been conditionally released – '

'Where is she?'

'She is being escorted to The Star and the Unicorn, at your uncle's behest. He knew she would be in need of rest and refreshment after such an ordeal. Though I must say, Gilbert, she's a lively one. Congratulations, I know you'll be relieved. Do you wish me to transport you both to the hotel?'

John shakes his head.

'Not me, though I won't say no to a ride to the station.'

'I am at your service. Excuse me gentlemen, I have some papers to sign. But I did want to tell you first.'

The hat goes on and he returns inside.

'You're not coming with me?' Gilbert asks.

He realises he had counted on this. He needed his father, to get a message to Sark, to help him find May, and simply to keep his feet on the ground.

'The farm can't wait, son, and I know you won't be leaving any time soon, not when you hear this.'

John pulls out a crumpled note and places it in Gilbert's hand.

'That's from your Ma, she told me to give this to you the moment I saw you, but I thought it better to choose the right time.'

'What is it, Pa, you're worrying me?'

'I don't think you'll worry when you hear it, I think everything will come clear. It's about Davy Rossi, your Ma now believes she made a mistake. After examining him the other day she had one of her revelations. Maybe this'll surprise you, or maybe it won't. But she is sure Davy is May's father.'

 **...**

 _* "as handsome as a thirty dollar pony" from a story by O. Henry_


	37. Chapter 37

_**Chapter thirty-seven**_

The Star and the Unicorn is a plush three storey building, with velvet chairs, silk rugs and brass receptacles for the hunched up men who pace around the lobby smoking cigarettes and cigars. The girl behind the marble-topped desk seems to be expecting Gilbert. At least she shows no surprise when a young man with split eyebrow and a bound wrist runs up to the desk and asks for Miss Shirley's room.

'Name?'

'Blythe,' Gilbert pants.

'Full name?'

'Of course,' Gilbert says, and duly supplies it.

'Sorry sir,' says the receptionist, shyly. 'I require your _full_ name.'

'Aurelius,' Gilbert adds, a little frustrated now. He only wanted a room number, not access to the Queen.

'Aurelius, yes.'

Gilbert realises the girl is reading these questions from a small slip of paper. She leans forward, inviting Gilbert to lean forward too.

'One last thing.'

'Yes?' Gilbert mutters, frowning.

'What sort of flower,' the girl says, her cheeks reddening, 'did you place in a midsummer wreath?'

'Wreath?'

Gilbert takes a step back, and looks to the elegant black and white marble staircase. Anne is up there all right; these questions had come straight from her.

'They were lilies,' he answers. 'Lily of the valley, to be precise.'

'Room 27,' the girl tells him, 'and don't talk to anyone else on the way.'

He dashes up the stairs, giving no heed to his bruised ribs and almost sprints down the hall. When he knocks it takes a full minute before Anne comes to the door. He is bouncing up and down when she opens it, bursting with need to see her.

'Anne!' he erupts as the door swings open, and rushes into her arms.

Anne is wearing a robe, the sort the hotel provides, and her skin is warm and wet. She lurches backward with the strength of his embrace, and does not stop until her leg strikes the walnut bedposts at the foot of the bed.

'Oh sweetheart, are you hurt?'

Anne eyes are huge.

'No, I didn't feel a thing.'

'And the rest of you, they weren't rough with you, were they?' and he brings his hand to her belly. 'Is _everything_ all right?'

'Mmm,' she nods, wrapping her arms around his firm waist. 'I'm fine. Really,' she assures him, and traces a finger along his face. 'But you're not –'

'You're mistaken, Anne,' he says, hazel eyes blazing, 'I can't remember being this happy in my entire life.'

His body protests when he picks her up, but instead of wincing he rejoices in the pain. It was worth it, all of it was worth it to have her in his arms again, and he spins her round the room till the skirts of her robe fly open.

'Bath or bed?' he asks her next.

Anne decides she would like to return to the bath, and invites Gilbert in too.

It's a slippery, tangled, frantic affair. In the end they realise she had better sit astride him. He is barely inside her before he knows he won't last more than a minute. All the panic, the exhaustion, the relief, the joy, the waiting, the pain, the not knowing, and then the knowing, it has built up inside him to such a degree there is no way he can hold it in any longer.

'I'm sorry – Anne, I can't –'

'Don't be sorry,' she whispers into his neck,' I've missed you so much, give it all to me…'

He does so, and makes such a heartrending moan, the guest next-door bangs upon the wall.

'It does echo in here,' Anne giggles, referring to the cavernous, tiled bathroom the bath sits in.

She brings her hand to Gilbert's chin, and lifts his head till his eyes meet hers. His chest is heaving, and hot scented water drips down a ripe bruise on his shoulder.

'Thank you,' she tells him, kissing the bruise, 'thank you for trying to get to me.'

'You're not mad?'

'Do I look mad?'

He grins. 'A little,' and brings his hand up to her wild red hair.

Anne leans back, arching her back and her neck till her hair is dipped in the water, coming up sleek as a seal.

'I promise you, I'm not mad. Tired, hungry, anxious for May. You know where she is, I take it?'

They step out of the bath and Gilbert helps himself to a second robe, wrapping it around him.

'Yes,' he says, quietly impressed, 'how did you know that?'

'If you didn't have some idea you would have pulled my arm out of my socket, trying to find her. Let me guess, May's disappearance has nothing to do with Isobel Hackthorne and everything to do with Davy.'

'Again,' says Gilbert, wholly amazed now, 'how could you know?'

Anne gives him another small smile.

'When you sit in a cell for twenty-four hours, you have a lot of time to think,' she says softly.

Her voice isn't tired so much as sad. She wanted to be wrong, she wanted to be told Davy is innocent of such a charge. But no, her stepbrother had to go and make another rash mistake. Why? Why did he always go out of his way to break anything that was good and sweet and true?

'Tell me what _you_ know,' Anne says, sitting on the bed.

Gilbert is already shimmying into his trousers.

'Not yet. First we get some food into you; we're going to have to make another journey soon.'

They order sandwiches, fruit, cheese, things they can take on the way. When it arrives Gilbert is still shirtless and Anne isn't much better. There is so much to talk over: what happened during her interview, his Aunt and Uncle's reaction, his father turning up in the Glen, the meeting with Paul Irving. Finally Gilbert gets to the note his mother wrote to him, conveying her suspicions about Davy.

'Yes,' Anne cuts in, licking mayonnaise from her fingers, 'I think your mother is right. The moment you showed me her letter, when we were camped on the hill, I had an uncomfortable sense that Davy was not just there to get a remedy from Ro. He was looking for something – or someone. I'm convinced he overheard your folks talking about little May.'

'And you think he went after her?'

Anne purses her lips together, her grey eyes wide and searching.

'I think he was either after May, or he was after… us.'

'Us – or _you?_ ' Gilbert says, his eyes narrowing.

'I'm sure it was May. He took her didn't he?'

'We don't know that for sure.'

'Here's what I know,' says Anne the sleuth reporter. 'I know Davy and Margaret knew each other intimately, otherwise she could never have known the meaning behind Davy's gift to me. I also know Davy proposed to Ruby on a whim, then the very same night he tried to ditch her –'

'Wait a minute,' Gilbert cuts in, ' _ditch_ her?'

'Ruby told me why they "eloped". It was the night of the Midsummer Dance remember, folks coming from afar as Grafton and White Sands?' Gilbert nods for Anne to continue. 'And they did come from all over, including a young man in Navy colours who took Davy aside and had what Ruby described as a tedious looking chat.'

'She didn't hear what they were saying?'

'No. I think Davy made sure of that, because he never introduced them, though later he told Ruby the officer was an old chum.'

'Go on,' says Gilbert, making his own conclusions now.

'It wasn't long after their chat that Davy insisted he had to go to Charlottetown. And Ruby insisted she had to go with him. She thought they were eloping, but I don't think he had any intention of marrying her; he just wanted to get out of Avonlea with the least fuss possible. He booked them into a hotel and took her to the station in the morning, I can't think why, except he knew people would come looking for her –'

'And he knew they could easily find her there,' Gilbert finishes.

'Then he disappeared. Ruby said he went privateering, but we also know Ruby has become very fond of stretching the truth.'

Gilbert thinks of the pink heart necklace, but for now he decides to say nothing.

'So where did Davy go?'

'I wish I knew. All I know is he came back more desperate than ever, and wanted May for himself.'

'Not for himself,' Gilbert says, bringing out his mother's note. He presses the wrinkled page against his knee, and rubs his tired eyes. 'Sorry, it's a bit of a scrawl.'

'I'm familiar with it,' Anne grins.

'Here,' he says, passing it to Anne, who begins reading his mother's words aloud.

 _'Margaret swore her health was sound, and I had no reason to doubt her. I knew the ailment Davy contracted always gets worse when a body is strained, and I can't imagine the strain Margaret was under could have been much worse. She'd been kicked out of home in the middle of winter, and was heavily pregnant, yet she appeared to be in perfect health. I knew if Davy had infected her it could have lead to May's deafness, but I always thought this coincidental rather than conclusive. What I am trying to say is the connection between these things is not what made me realise of my mistake. It was the tattoo the silly boy has got for himself:_ Father's Pride _in three inch letters across his back, and underneath what I first took to be some little five pointed stars. In the hours after I last wrote to you I have realised they aren't stars at all. Gilbert, they are mayflowers.'_

Anne groans.

'Won't have a thing to do with his daughter, but etched her name into his skin.'

'It seems he does care, Anne, why else would he take her back?'

'Back!' Anne snaps. 'He has no claim on May. It's Margaret's word against his, and she must hate him for renouncing her the way he did.'

'Unless,' Gilbert says, tucking the note in his pocket, 'he doesn't want May for himself. Remember I told you I met Margaret's father, Mr Morrissey? He told me he had three children?'

'Yes,' Anne says. 'A daughter in Guelph – that's where the reformatory is – and two sons. One in the railways and one in the navy.'

'What if the naval officer who met up with Davy at the Midsummer Dance was Margaret's brother? What if he was there to pass on a message that Margaret's father wanted to see him? What if he told Davy where to find his daughter?'

'You think Margaret wants her baby back?'

Gilbert raised his eyebrows in assent.

'I think Davy means to take May to Guelph.'

'But Gilbert,' Anne says, leaping up from the bed, 'what are we doing here? We should be at the port, watching for him to cross the Strait.'

'I don't think he'll do that just yet. Davy used to be a thief, he knows how these things work. My bet is he plans to wait a while. You can't just kidnap someone, not on a little Island like this, where everyone knows everyone else. Pa says he means to alert the reformatory, get them to keep an eye on Margaret. They'll do it too. This is a serious crime.'

'I know it,' Anne agrees. 'Why do you think all those men are sitting around the lobby downstairs? I had to make the poor girl at reception promise she would only allow you into my room.'

'Yes, I was going to ask about that.'

'It's the Echo,' Anne explains, rolling her eyes, 'They always have a few reporters posted outside the police station. One of them spotted me going in with the detective. They think _I_ have the big scoop on the woman who was arrested for stealing a baby in Glen St Mary.'

Gilbert can't help himself, and starts to laugh.

'They think _you_ have the scoop, don't they know you _are_ the scoop?' Anne rolls her eyes again. 'So how do you plan to get out of here unseen?'

'I don't,' Anne says, fastening her shirtwaist. 'Uh uh,' she reprimands when Gilbert tries to help. 'If I let you help, I won't get it on for another hour!' and she laughs. 'I have no plans to skulk out the back like a criminal, in fact I mean to demand an audience with Mr Oliver, himself. If he wants this story, he'll have some serious grovelling to do.'

'You don't mean you'd write about Davy, do you?'

'I've learned my lesson, I'm going to let this story reveal itself to me before I make any decisions about what I plan to write. All I know is we need to get to White Sands. I take it that's where we're heading next.'

'I thought we should talk to Mr Morrissey,' Gilbert agrees, 'find out what he knows. Maybe that's where Davy took May.'

'I thought the same thing. Well Mr Oliver can purchase our tickets, _and_ some accommodation for the night.'

Anne had been lacing her boots, and stands up now, her chin rising with her.

'Come,' she says, 'throw on your shirt, we going to find our Mayflower.'

'Anne?' says Gilbert, a grin on his face as he watches her march toward the door. 'I think you should put your skirt on first.'

The meeting with Mr Oliver goes better than Gilbert expected. What makes this even more surprising is the reason he was so effusive is because Anne told him she was married.

'I didn't mean to, not exactly, but he would go on, begging me to come back and work for him. So I told him that I had to go because my husband was waiting for me.'

'And he _liked_ that?'

Anne folds the envelope that contains the allowance Oliver supplied for her, and tucks it into her jacket pocket.

'He did,' she says. 'Do you remember a while back, your mother and I came up with this idea for me to write a sort of How To column for the single fellow, offering advice on everything from how to sew a button to how to cook soup?'

Gilbert offers his arm and they cross the street to Charlottetown Station.

'Yes I remember, he adored the idea – until he found out you were only sixteen.'

Anne fumes. 'The two-faced buffoon. Telling me he could never allow an unmarried girl to advise grown men because his readers would be outraged. I tell you who would be outraged, his highfalutin advertisers! I'm sure that's why he killed my story on Miss Hamilton, because the rich families _she_ serves are the same rich families that place advertisements in _his_ paper! Two tickets to White Sands,' she says next, passing a crisp two dollar bill through a window in the booth. 'First Class,' she adds.

Gilbert hides his laugh with a cough.

'But now that I'm married, he thinks I am the perfect choice to write this column,' she continues. 'Suddenly I'm respectable.'

'Very respectable, Selkie's child,' Gilbert teases.

Anne pokes out her pink tongue.

'Thank you, good day,' she says to the rather confused ticket seller, before turning to Gilbert again. 'So, what do you think I should do?'

They are walking with haste to platform seven, when Gilbert suddenly halts.

'You're asking _me_?'

'Weeellll,' Anne equivocates, 'I don't have all the answers. I want to keep working for Ro, of course, but it doesn't pay very much. This way I could stay in Avonlea and write for the Echo just like your mother.'

'A little too much like my mother,' Gilbert mutters. 'Anne, I love you for who you are. I can't imagine you ever being satisfied working for Oliver, not now you know what you know.'

Anne makes a deep, dramatic sigh.

'Oh I knew you were going to say that.'

Her full lips curl into something she hopes resembles a smile. She is trying for nonchalant, but Gilbert knows how she truly feels. The constant refrain of income, security, savings, home is something Anne can now hear, too.

The hope Gilbert has that Eggers will keep his end of the deal is feeling more and more like a distant dream. Avonlea's tiresome dictates to maintain one's respectability and abide by the rules, sound like simple common sense now. Instead he and Anne had forged their own path, they had made their own world, and they had broken the rules. But not all of them.

One thing Gilbert knows for sure: he will never put Anne in harms way again. Dependable, that's what he needs to be, a solid foundation for his family. Living off the land, seeking out herbs and stories, that dream belongs to the secret world they had left behind on the hill.

'I'm going to take care of you, you believe that, don't you? I don't want you worrying about that. You can stay and work and live with my folks and I'll go back to school. We'll have April to September together every year until I finish. We can manage with that, can't we?'

Anne looks up at him tenderly, and strokes his dear bruised face.

'We've certainly managed to fit a lot of living into these last six months. Perhaps you're right, Blythe,' she says, stoutly, 'I don't think we could survive a whole year.'


	38. Chapter 38

**_Chapter thirty-eight_**

They arrive at White Sands just after lunch and head straight for the hotel. Anne books a room, something cosy and quiet, away from the bustle of the strand. Gilbert heads to the back of the hotel and across the alley to the police station, where he finds Fred at the front desk writing up reports. The smile that breaks out in his face tells Gilbert everything: Fred is gladder than he should be to have something (a very welcome something at that) to distract him from the massive pile of paper work at his elbow.

They shake hands and slap backs and Fred makes a joke about the ugly scab marring his chum's eyebrow.

'What's hidin' under that beard, I wonder?'

'You can keep wondering,' Gilbert grimaces. 'This is not a social call, Tourt. We're looking for May.'

A brief look of confusion passes over Fred's face, then his dark brown eyes light up.

'The kidnappin'. You don't mean to tell me –'

'So you know about it?'

'Sure I do. All the stations up and down the Island have been alerted. They just said it was a fair-haired infant girl. I had no idea it was wee May. What makes you think she is here, didn't she disappear in the Glen?'

He leaves the counter and fastens the topmost button on his black serge coat.

'Let's talk about it at the hotel,' says Gilbert, 'I'm not sure I want the police involved yet.'

Fred whistles. 'You stayin' at the White Sands? Wart cream's payin' off, I see.'

'Something like that,' Gilbert says, vaguely. 'Come on. Anne's there too.'

Fred whistles again, but this time he says nothing. He learned a long time ago it's best not to jump to conclusions when it comes to Anne Shirley.

Anne has not learned that lesson yet, but she is about to. A befuddled, almost girlish blush rises from the collar of her dress and blots her cheeks, as Constable Wright takes her hand.

'Anne,' Fred says, doffing his cap, 'I wish we were meetin' under better circumstances. Gil told me about May.'

'Fred!' Anne blurts, squeezing his hand.

 _Fred_. So trim and manly in his well-fitted suit, his neatly trimmed moustache, and his bright white teeth; the way he held himself with oodles of confidence; why he looks ten feet tall!

'Fred…' she says again.

'She in shock?' Fred mutters to Gilbert, his brows turning downward with concern.

'Sure looks that way,' says Gilbert, with amusement. 'Anne, would you like to sit down?'

Anne shoots a look at him, and remembers to release Fred's hand.

'I'm sorry I… I haven't seen you in your uniform,' she explains, feeling rather embarrassed now – not to say ridiculous – as explanations about May and Davy leave her head. All she can think of is what she plans to write in her next letter to Diana.

'Still gettin' used to it,' Fred chuckles, glancing down at himself; the brilliant silver buttons, the glossy black boots a far cry from the overall he was never seen without.

'Fred's here as a friend, not a constable,' Gilbert says, before turning to him again. 'We're hoping we can right this mess without need of the law. We have good reason to think Davy Rossi is involved.'

Fred shakes his head.

'Mighta known. So what can I do to help?'

The three walk arm in arm past a willow to a painted bench looking out to the sea. Anne has found her tongue now, and quickly fills Fred in on the most recent events: how they had worked out Mr Morrissey was Margaret's father, and suspected he summoned Davy to Charlottetown.

'You mean Miss Mawsey is Miss Morrissey? But why'd she change her name?'

'It's possible her father disowned her after finding out she was pregnant. We plan to visit him next, at the haberdashers,' Anne says.

'You can try,' Fred muses, rubbing his jaw. 'But I don't see as you'll get any answers there. Morrisseys has been shut for a month or more. Bereavement or somethin'. I could check the records for you, but so far as I know no one's been livin' above the shop for four weeks at least.'

'Davy could be hiding up there.'

'I ain't breaking in, Gil, if that's what you're hopin'. I need to talk to Mackerson first.'

Anne huffs with growing impatience.

'And Mackerson will have to talk to Swan, and Swan will have to talk to someone else. Meanwhile we're sitting by the sea like tourists discussing proper procedure!'

'Lemme guess,' Fred mutters, lifting Gilbert's cap to size up the cut on his chum's brow, 'you two ain't been following proper procedure?'

'Fred's right,' Gilbert says to Anne, 'we have to be smart about this. You've only been conditionally released, there is no way I am risking you getting locked up again.'

Fred's mouth falls open and his eyes go wide.

'You what!'

'That's another story for another time, Tourt. Come on,' Gilbert urges, 'we can visit Morrisseys at least, there's no harm in that.'

Anne and Gilbert find it is just as Fred said. According to the black bordered note posted to the inside of the display window, Morrisseys is closed due to a death in the family.

'It couldn't be Margaret, could it?'

'Don't think that way,' Gilbert reassures her.

He has seen that look in Anne's eyes before, when she talked with him about her mother's letters. The thought of Margaret being kept from her child must haunt her, and Anne does not need upsetting right now.

'Gil's right, there's bound to be plenty of folks in Morrissey's circle who up and died. You mentioned his boys had dangerous occupations, could be somethin' happened to one of 'em.'

'Or it could be a cover up, it could be they've got May. Maybe she's up there right now,' Anne speculates, gazing up at the second storey windows, the curtains all pulled shut.

'We ain't breakin' in,' Fred reminds her. 'If you want to get inside you need more proof than a hunch, and I reckon yours is a bad one. I know Davy's a fool but he's no simpleton, he'd have to be desperate to hide out there. One way in, one way out, right in the middle of Main Street.'

'Fred, you're right!' Gilbert declares.

He punches Fred's arm and instantly regrets it. His wrist though out of the sling is still very sore, and while Fred might have changed outwardly he is still as solid as ever.

'Where did Davy used to hide back when he was thieving, when he broke into my boarding house and stole everything I owned?'

Anne's eyes narrow and a crease appears on her forehead.

'Not everything, Gilbert. He left your blanket behind.'

'Just like he left it behind on the hill,' Gilbert cries, 'Davy wants us to know it was him!'

'You mean he wants to be found?' Fred utters, scratching his head.

'No. I think he just wanted to prove he had outsmarted us. Oh Davy,' Anne sighs, 'why do you do these things?'

Gilbert yanks on her hand.

'Come on, let's find out.'

Fred finds them a cab to take them to the cliffs, and they stop a half mile from their destination. They walk in silence, each of them aware that Davy will be listening out for intruders, which gives Gilbert some time time to think. Foremost on his mind right now is regret, for not insisting Anne remain behind. He should have made her stay at the hotel, but one look at Anne's steely grey eyes tells him he would have had more luck reining in a wild horse.

It is after three by the time they approach the cliff face where Davy once made his home. He knows these caves well, knows how they are linked, which ones flood with the rising tide, and which ones are unstable. This knowledge gives Davy the upper hand, but it also narrows his options. Davy is not alone, he has a eight month baby to shelter; and while he might think nothing of risking his own life, surely he wouldn't risk May's?

In the end May finds them, her soft cooing echoing against the red stone walls of the furthest, biggest cave, a short and easy climb up the cliff face. There is a large dust covered branch by the entrance, no doubt used to sweep over his footprints, and a polished lantern hidden just inside by a pile of neatly stacked driftwood.

Fred enters first; the sight of his uniform is likely to make Davy keep to his hiding place, rather than start a confrontation, and he walks in slowly and peers into the gloom. Anne and Gilbert stand outside; her hands clasped over her mouth, his stretched about her back as they wait in silence, scarcely daring to breathe.

Anne face is white, Gilbert is not far behind. The crashing surf sounds ominous, the call of a gull makes them jump. Then Fred appears, the little girl in his arms, wrapped in a sheet Davy had probably swiped from a washing line. Fred had found her in a curled up in a barrel that had been lined with even more blankets. She was sticky, grubby, wide-eyed and silent, her little hands clinging to one of Fred's silver buttons. When she sees Anne and Gilbert she starts to cry, her little arms wide and yearning to be held.

'She's all right – she's all right – she's all right...' Anne cries, holding May close to her breast.

The wave of relief that falls over Gilbert feels like it might bring him to his knees. It's over, May is safe, he can't stop smiling – until he does. The grin he wore just seconds ago stretching into a sneer.

'Where is he?' he hisses, shouldering passed Fred.

Fred yanks him right back.

'If he's in there I never saw him, and I ain't lettin' you go after him now. It's time to inform Mackerson, Gil, we got to involve the law.'

Gilbert watches for Anne's response, and is surprised to see her nod in agreement. He was sure she would fight Fred on this. Davy is her stepbrother, he is Martin's son, he is May's father...

'I want to go, Gilbert,' Anne says to him, never taking her eyes off May. 'I want to get May away from here, get her clean and warm and safe. I don't know why Davy did such a thing, and right now I don't care. He could have talked to us, he could have told us what he knew, instead he chose to do this. The mess is his, and he will have to fix it. Send for Mackerson,' she adds, nodding at Fred, 'there's nothing more we can do.'

Fred insists on staying at the cave, and instructs Gilbert to let his superiors know where to find him. Gilbert agrees, though reluctantly, and together he and Anne make their way back to the hotel. It takes a good hour to reach the township, during which time May falls asleep in Anne's arms. She's a heavy little bundle, and smells a lot like condensed milk, but Anne won't hear of it when Gilbert offers to hold her for a while.

It's a lucky thing he didn't, in the next moment Gilbert lurches forward and almost trips as someone shoves his shoulder. His first instinct is to look for Anne, who is backing away like a cornered animal into a crowded part of the street.

'Davy, let us be,' she begs him, shoppers and shop owners staring at her with growing curiosity.

'Give me back my daughter!'

Davy is pale, and even though it is a balmy July day he is dressed in the heavy sweater and cap he wore the day of Fred's graduation. He looks like he has hardly slept, and licks his lips nervously, his tear-filled eyes on May.

''scuse me son, ' says one man in the crowd, 'you sayin' this lady has your child – is that your baby?'

Davy takes a step closer to Anne, Gilbert steps between them.

'Let's not talk about this here,' Gilbert reasons, 'Davy, we're heading to the White Sands Hotel –'

' _He's_ not coming,' Anne implores, 'I don't want him anywhere near us!'

Davy face crumples, and he wipes his eyes.

'You turned Anne against me, Gilbert. My one friend in the whole world.'

'I was your friend,' Gilbert reminds him. 'Dora, Martin, Marilla, Ruby, they all love you Davy –'

Davy begins crying in earnest now, tears fall unchecked down his cheeks.

'There was only one person in all the world who loved me,' he says brokenly; the rumbling crowd falls silent, even Anne turns her head.

'And now she's dead... '

'Oh Davy, no,' Anne murmurs, taking a step toward him.

'Don't you see,' says Davy eagerly, 'I'm the only person May has left, I have to make this right –'

He walks toward Anne slowly, till his shaking hand brushes May's cheek.

'I let Margaret down, I know that,' he admits, though he can't help adding, 'but she let me down too. It's up to me to make this right. A baby needs her father, Anne, you can't keep her from me.'

'Look at her,' Anne says, angrily, 'This is not how you take care of a child.'

'Davy,' Gilbert adds, approaching him. 'Where is Fred?'

'Constable Wright?' Davy mutters, sarcastically. 'How should I know. He was hanging round the cave when I came back with my supplies. We had a tussle and he landed on the sand. He couldn't have fallen far, I just wanted to get to May.'

'Did you hurt him?'

'I gave him a push,' Davy shrugs. 'It wasn't more'n I gave you. I don't know what you're in a flap about, when you stole my baby...'

Davy pauses then, suddenly aware of a change in the expressions of his audience. Every one of them glaring at him.

'You never hurt the constable,' one of them demands, 'not young Fred?'

They suck their teeth and mutter to each other, then give cold looks to Davy. That baby looks badly dressed and spooked. Maybe it's best the redheaded girl keeps hold of it, after all.

Gilbert is torn now: wanting to get Anne back to the hotel and wanting to get to Fred. He should be here by now, why didn't he follow Davy after he took a tumble? Something is very wrong.

'You want me to send word to Mackerson?' says a man in a butcher's apron. 'I can send my boy here, Will.'

'Yes,' Anne cuts in, her eyes on Gilbert. 'And you can walk me to the hotel, if you wouldn't mind. Gilbert needs to go –'

'I never hurt him,' Davy whimpers. 'I just pushed him out of my way. I promise you – I give you my word.'

'Your word?' Gilbert snaps at him. 'Don't you understand? Your word means _nothing_ anymore!'

He dashes off in the direction of the cliffs without a backward glance. The crowd disperses, the murmurs cease. When Davy Rossi finally dares to look up, Anne and May have gone.

They meet again two days later at Charlottetown hospital. Davy had been telling the truth when he said Fred didn't fall far. But he didn't take into account what the lad fell on; a twisted piece of driftwood that pierced his thick wool jacket and entered between two ribs at his back. Apart from realising he couldn't easily move, Fred didn't feel much, and after Gilbert removed the broken stick, and dressed the wound with some cloth he found in Davy's cave, he felt much better and even reported for work the next morning. It wasn't until the evening that Fred felt chilled and sore, and couldn't even bear his nightshirt touching his back. Mackerson found him hunched up in bed, shivering fiercely; the doctors at the hospital quickly diagnosing sepsis.

'What is he doing here!' Gilbert yells, when he sees Davy enter the hospital's waiting room. 'You've got a nerve, Rossi, get out!'

Anne swiftly ushers Davy outside. There is a small garden where convalescing patients are taking in the sun, bordered by shrubs and very old trees. Anne heads for a white painted arbour buckled with honeysuckle, and settles May on her other hip. She isn't trying to separate the two men. She brings Davy here because Fred's mother and father are expected at any moment. Once they find out Davy is involved... but Anne doesn't want to think about that. There has been more than enough bloodshed.

She and Davy talk for a few minutes, then he kisses May's head and her hand, and leaves. Gilbert knows nothing of that little flourish, and Anne prefers to keep it that way.

'That was quick,' Gilbert says, when Anne returns to the corridor, the same corridor he has been pacing for hours.

'Have Fred's parents arrived?'

Gilbert nods, remembering the grey look on Adam Wright's face. If Fred had seemed ten feet tall to Anne, Adam looked like he had aged ten years. Sepsis killed Adam's father, took Freda, too. The doctors tried, but in the end the doctors could do nothing.

'What did Rossi want?' Gilbert asks.

Not that he cares, he just needs something else to think about besides the devastating symptoms of blood poisoning: fever, diarrhea, vomiting, confusion, excruciating pain as the blood thickened and one by one each organ failed. It hasn't got that bad yet, but that's the thing, you never know when it might. In a day, in an hour, in the next minute Gilbert might find out that Fred has died.

'He wanted to explain, but I don't think you're not in the right state of mind to hear this now –'

'No Anne, I want to know!' Gilbert falters. He stills his body and takes a deep breath. 'I want to understand,' he says, more gently. 'Does he still want May?'

'He didn't mention her at all,' Anne reflects, thinking of Davy. He wore the same thick sweater and hangdog expression, and looked extremely sorry for himself. 'Except to say that she reminded him of Margaret.'

Gilbert lifts the baby from her permanent place on Anne's hip, and holds her against his chest. Her blonde floss tickles his lips and he nuzzles her for a moment.

'Poor little Mayflower, I don't know how Ma will take it when she learns Margaret died. Did Davy say how it happened?'

'He did. It was very important to him that I understood why he did what he had done –'

'And _do_ you understand?' Gilbert asks her, his voice barely concealing his growing impatience.

Anne attempts a smile, but the best she can manage is a grimace. She doesn't like it here; the echoing halls, the far off moans, the ever present smell of carbolic and urine.

'You need some fresh air,' she suggests, and tells him about the little garden. Gilbert nods and takes her hand, leading her to the massive oak in full and lucent leaf.

'I guess I can't help but understand,' Anne begins. 'He's a romantic at heart, is Davy Rossi. He thought that Margaret... Well she said he was her first – if you know what I mean,' she adds shyly, glad that May cannot hear nor understand. 'When Davy became ill he felt doubly betrayed... He says it was Margaret who infected him.'

'And you believe him?'

I don't know. It explains why he acted so coldly toward her, why he never trusted the love of anyone else. He vowed to cast Margaret from his heart, so when she turned up and claimed he was the father of her baby, Davy told himself it was another lie. He didn't see why he should take the blame when he had already suffered enough. Then Ruby fell in love with him, and he let her think he loved her too –'

'You mean _he_ lied,' says Gilbert coldly.

'He also lied to himself. He seems he never stopped loving Margaret, and couldn't believe it when her brother turned up the very night he proposed to poor Ruby. We had it right, Gilbert, all of it. Mr Morrissey was trying to get a message to Davy. Margaret became consumptive not long after she was admitted into the reformatory. She knew she was dying and wanted to see her daughter again.'

'And Davy was too late.'

'It's worse than that. After Mr Morrissey told Davy where to find her, he left for Guelph the next morning. He never thought of bringing May, all he cared about was getting to her before she died. When Margaret found out he had come without her daughter she refused to see him. Then Davy did what he always does and ran away. He's lucky he's still on shore leave, otherwise he'd be hunted down for desertion. He went wild, drinking, gambling, fighting and the... the other,' Anne hints, reddening. 'Somewhere along the way he got it into his head that May needed a father. So he went back to Avonlea in order to claim her, and found out you'd taken her to the Glen.'

'Does he know you're having a baby?' Gilbert asks.

'He never said anything if that's what you're worried about. He just seemed very sad and lost. He can't understand why he is suddenly the villain when the world has been so cruel to him. I didn't know what to say to him, Gil, when he is wilfully blind to the hurts he has caused.'

Gilbert hugs May close to him and touches Anne's face. Her strength, her courage, her pureness of heart: it still stuns Gilbert that she wants him; that he could be worthy of her.

'You're a better person than I am, giving Davy one minute of your time. But I won't give into self pity... I won't think of him at all.'

Presently Adam Wright comes looking for them, and walks toward the oak with a purposeful stride. Gilbert plops May into Anne's arms and turns to face him, bracing himself for bad news, while hoping for the best.

'Mr Wright?'

'We're gettin' out of here!' he barks.

'But you just arrived.'

'No Gil, I mean we are leaving – _all_ of us...'

His hands shake and he brings them to his hair and scruffs it till it stands up in grey spikes.

'This is too much, this is just too much!'

'Mr Wright please, don't give up,' Anne implores. 'You must stay strong for your wife, for Fred –'

'Oh, I'm in my right wits, don't you worry about that. It's this place that's gone mad. They're injectin' my son full of bromide, he passed out with the pain. I'm not standin' for it for one more minute. We're headin' back to Avonlea.'

He rubs his great hand over his jaw then clasps Gilbert's shoulder till Gilbert fears it will break.

'Gil, I want you to go there now, I want you to tell your mother to prepare –'

'Prepare for what? Mr Wright I don't understand –'

'We're bringin' Fred to the cottage, tonight if we can manage it. Your mother saved his thumb once, I reckon she can save his life. I don't want _anyone_ to touch my son but Ro.'

 **...**

 _* bromide was a common treatment for infected wounds in the days before antibiotics. It was injected into the surrounding tissue and often caused necrosis._


	39. Chapter 39

**_Chapter thirty-nine_**

George Fletcher and John Blythe meet them at the station. Fred is carried onto the back of John's wagon, and lain on a neat pile of blankets and rugs. Celie insists on riding with him, while Adam loads the luggage into George's buggy and sits up next to him. It is a silent seven mile journey, and a slow one: the slightest jolt goes through Fred like a white hot poker jabbing between his ribs. Celie sends more than one foul look in her husband's direction during the ordeal, though she softens when Fred recognises the sweet smell of cherry blossom along the Avenue.

'We're home,' he mutters, hoarsely, as he watches it fall. 'Oh my sweet Déesse…'

Celie isn't certain who the goddess Fred refers to is, but she has a good idea. And a sharp pang strikes her heart as she thinks of Diana Barry, who won't be returning from Europe for four more weeks.

She had not been sorry when Diana refused her son's impulsive proposal. Neither was she surprised. Her own husband had been just as idiotic when he asked for her hand; standing up before everyone at a White Sands recital and bellowing, "Marry me, Miss Jubert! Marry me!" while the audience burst into laughter.

Celie had stormed off too, annoyed that the big brash Avonlea lad had stolen her applause. But she soon came round when he turned up at her family's two room shack in Grafton and apologised to her – in _French!_ Bad French, of course, mangled and flat; but Adam had tried. He had come to her cap in hand and made himself a stuttering fool for her sake. And Celie perceived that under Adam's bricklike exterior hid a of heart of wax: soft and malleable, its little wick yearning to be lit by her own pure light.

Now it lies cracked and crumbling in his chest. News of Fred's injury, and the fear that came with it, had dealt Adam's heart an irreparable blow.

Adam never wanted Fred to join the police force. He agreed because he knew the ridicule Fred would likely face would lead his boy to loathe the place he came from. A boy who loved the land. Adam was sure he would return one day. But not like this; wracked with fever in the back of a cart. He should never have allowed his son to leave. Sure Fred would have hated him for it, but at least he would live.

This is what Adam believes, that Fred is just days from death. He had seen sepsis take his father, and this was just like that. He could not face watching his son spend his last hours far from home. Fred belongs in Avonlea, in Yellow Birches, in the arms of his brothers, his Granny, his Ma… Adam does not let himself believe Ro can save him – though perhaps another female can.

After settling Fred in at the cottage Adam pays a visit to the Barrys; the words he wants to say to them like so much mangled French in his throat. Mr Barry won't hear of Diana being told about Fred, but his wife holds a different view. As Adam shuts the gates of Orchard Slope with a bad tempered clang, he looks up to see the pale, pinched face of Ebba Barry, clutching her shawl around her as she hastens to catch up with him.

'Is it your opinion my daughter would come home directly, if she was made aware of this news?'

'I have a lot of doubts about your daughter,' Adam answers tersely, 'but I do not doubt her heart. Nor do I doubt her reaction when she finds out you knew my boy was dyin' and kept it to yourself.'

'She's on the verge of becoming engaged,' Ebba reveals, 'to a gentleman from England. A stranger…'

Ebba's knuckles go white as they grip the top of the gate, her voice faltering on the last word. She did not have to say more. It was clear to Adam that Ebba – proud, haughty, Ebba Barry – should have heeded Aunt Atossa's advice and been careful what she wished for. Diana had caught herself a proper gentleman and was about make a life on the other side of the Atlantic, far from the Island, from Avonlea, and far from the influence of her mother.

'I'll leave it to you,' Adam tells Ebba and doffs his cap, surprised at the whistle that comes from his throat as he trudges back to the Blythes.

It dies on his lips when he sees his boy, grey and shivering in Gilbert's narrow bed. Ro Blythe smiles at Adam, tenderly, and places a small cloth bag in his hands.

'For Celie,' she says, 'to help her sleep. Camomile,' she explains. 'She'll need her strength, and you will too. Get some rest Adam, I'll send word the moment I note any change.'

Fred's condition does change, and not for the better. The fever grows higher; Anne, Ro and Gilbert taking turns to monitor and cool it as best they can. For ten days his brothers peep through the little cottage window, their eyes tearless and wide. Celie and Ruby take over the care of little May; Adam cuts so much firewood for the coming winter, he begins the construction of another woodshed.

Gilbert is binding up another cut on Adam's rough and calloused hands when he hears a loud rap at the front door. He sighs with frustration as he walks down the hall. Everyone knows they are minding Fred around the clock, and his mother was trying to sleep. The frown he wears barely shifts from his face when he discovers who is calling.

'Afternoon, Mrs Barry, I –' and his hazel eyes go wide as Diana appears from behind her mother's shoulder, her pretty, dimpled face distorted with exhaustion and fear.

'We've come straight from the steamer,' she says, breathlessly. 'Please tell me, I beg you, is Fred... does he live?'

'He will now!' Gilbert blurts and clinches his arms around Diana's waist. 'Oh you blessed girl,' he cries, twirling her round the front porch and almost knocking over the elegantly dressed fellow, lurking further down the porch.

'Do excuse me,' he utters, though he could hardly be said to be at fault.

'Oh Herbert...'

Diana lowers her head with embarrassment, as Gilbert lowers her to the ground. She had forgotten he was there. She clears her throat and says, rather shrilly:

'Gilbert, allow me to introduce –'

'For goodness sake,' Ebba interrupts, in a most unEbba-like fashion. 'I'll make the introductions, Diana, why don't you go to Fred?'

'He's in the cottage with Anne,' Gilbert mutters, so surprised at Mrs Barry, he forgets to ask Diana to be quiet, as her footfalls sound down the hall.

Ruby Gillis appears now, little May on her hip; her pudgy wee hand pulling at the pink heart circling Ruby's shapely neck.

'Was that Diana Barry that just dashed by me?' she asks, then notes the two other guests on the porch. 'Gilbert Blythe, where are your manners? Mrs Barry, won't you come in?'

Ebba makes her excuses, she has Diana's things to unpack and still needs to find a place for Mr Spencer to stay. He was supposed to be staying in the Blythe's spare room, but of course that isn't possible now. Neither is it proper for him to stay at Orchard Slope, Ebba adds, in what is no doubt a sly dig at Gilbert's folks for allowing Anne Shirley to stay with them.

Ruby longs to roll her eyes at this, Mrs Barry is such a stickler for olden days rules. Instead the goodhearted girl offers the spare room at her place – if her Mama agrees of course.

'Why that's very kind of you, Mrs – Mrs –' Herbert stammers, assuming the babe on this beautiful young woman's hip is hers.

'Rossi,' Ruby supplies, without missing a beat. 'We only live next door, Mr Spencer, why don't we go there now?'

Ebba is only too happy to leave them to it, and bids Gilbert farewell. He swears he hears her humming to herself as she walks up the path to her carriage, where Minnie-May is kicking the door in boredom. She will be sent to Aunt Josephine next, it was the Barry way of sorting out unruly girls. But for now, one unruly girl has been returned to Avonlea. And for Gilbert – and all who love Fred – there can be no better news.

Adam leaves soon after Diana's arrival, giving no more than a perfunctory nod through the cottage window as he makes his way back to the farm. His wife always came by after supper, little Laurie in tow, but that evening she does not show, nor Claude or Hal or Granny Giraud.

There is someone who refuses to leave, however; a black haired girl with splendid curves, a rosy cheek and adoring dark eyes, who clasps Fred's trembling hand and mops his brow and whispers words of comfort for hours on end.

Ro finally persuades her to come into her house, though it is only the thought of tiring Fred that convinces Diana to let go his hand. She sits in the covered porch and drinks the first cup of tea to pass her lips for hours – then almost spits it out again.

'What on earth!' she grimaces, peering into the yellowish brew. 'There's a flower petal in my tea! Why the whole thing tastes of hay!'

'It's St John's wort, dearest,' Anne says, 'to help you get over the shock. You must be done in, coming all this way and finding Fred so ill.'

Diana sets the cup in its saucer and rests her face on her hands.

'This is... oh Anne, this is a summer holiday after the dreariest and longest of school terms. All I could think for the whole journey was that I wouldn't make it in time. To see my Fred again, have his dear sweet hand hold mine, why I never even let myself dream of it,' she says, and very unconvincingly. It is obvious to everyone Diana has been dreaming of little else.

How much Anne wants to ask about the new occupant of the Gillis' spare room. Instead she makes Diana a fresh cup of "proper tea" with oodles of sugar and cream.

'That hits the spot,' Diana says, downing it all in one gulp. 'Now if you'll excuse me, Anne darling, I really must get back to Fred.'

'Not tonight, you're not,' Gilbert says, entering the covered porch. 'Strict orders from Ma,' he tells her. 'You must get some rest.'

Anne happily takes this opportunity to walk Diana through their old paths to home. She soon discovers Diana has her own burning question to ask; why her bosom friend's bosom has suddenly got so much bigger; why her freckles have darkened, and her lips?

'What did you tell her?' Gilbert says when Anne returns, his nose in his mother's book.

The blue spruce balm appears to be drawing out the infection, but Fred's fever was still not going down. It is this, rather than the poisoning that worries Gilbert now. Fred can barely keep down a few teaspoons of gruel. His body had grown so weak he lacks the strength to digest, and needs something to build up his strength. Echinacea seemed his best bet. Gilbert would have to go to every house in Avonlea tomorrow and collect some fresh specimens. Root, head, petal, leaf, all of it must be tried. There were recipes in his mother's book that even she did not understand, written by Nespe in her spidery copperplate. Claudine would know what her words meant – maybe even Sark. Gilbert needs to get a message to them, but how do you send a letter to a hilltop?

'Did Sark ever mention an address to you?'

Anne smiles at Gilbert benevolently.

'I don't believe you heard a word I said.'

'About what?' Gilbert frowns.

'About what I told Diana, and more importantly, what she told me.'

Gilbert drags his eyes away from the page he is studying and focuses on Anne.

'I'll do that,' he warns, 'obsess over cures and the survival of my patients, I hope you can live with that?'

'So long as you always come back to me,' Anne says, gently.

She offers her hand and he kisses it, his brows turning downward as he thinks of the few weeks they have together before he will have to leave her again. The book is shut with such a slam, May feels the vibration through the floor.

Anne picks her up from her basket and cradles the girl in her arms.

'I told Diana you asked me to marry you – she guessed the rest.'

'You mean she knows you're going to have a baby?'

Anne nods, pinkly.

'She said she didn't know who was the bigger fool – herself or me.'

Gilbert leans forward, his tired face suddenly bright.

'She loves Fred, doesn't she? This visit is more than her making right some past regret, she really wants to be his wife?'

'How could you think anything else? The moment she received her mother's telegram she booked a berth straight away.'

'But that Englishman, Mr Spencer?'

'You mean why is he here? Even Diana has no answer for that. She puts it down to his unimpeachable manners. Aunt Josephine refused to shorten her tour, so Herbert took it upon himself to accompany Diana home.'

Gilbert leans back in his chair, impressed.

'You mean to tell me the fellow knew Diana was rushing home to the bedside of another man and he offered to go with her? _'_

'He did,' Anne says, incredulously. 'It's hard to know who was more shocked: Diana, or her mother when she met them at the station. She seemed to expect Diana to announce her engagement to Herbert at every moment.'

'But _you_ didn't,' Gilbert concludes.

Anne shakes her head.

'I think Di may have been infatuated with him at first. He was dashing and proper and magnificently rich and everything she pictured in a husband to be. But I could tell by her letters she was quickly becoming bored with him. He's a little too agreeable, too generous, too nice. A girl likes the opportunity to... ah... tame a fellow, and Herbert... Well he was –'

'Already broken in?'

'Mmm. In her last letter Diana spent two paragraphs describing the wild splendour of the Giant's Causeway, and two sentences on Mr Spencer, and then only to mention how he kept apologising to the midges as he flapped them away from Diana's face. Poor man,' Anne continued, shifting the dozing May to her shoulder, 'I don't know what he'll make of all the Gillis girls.'

'Don't you?' Gilbert says, wryly.

Anne laughs.

'Gilbert Blythe, I believe my matchmaking skills have rubbed off on you!'

It is a welcome sound, so rare and so needed, both Ro and John pop their heads around the door, as if hoping some of Anne's sunshine might warm them up too.

Gilbert tells his mother his plan to gather as much echinacea as he can, and the following day he and Anne go door to door, asking each household to spare what they can. Most folks know it as cone-flower, and most folks are happy to help. Word had spread about Fred Wright's latest feat of heroism, fighting off May's kidnapper and no doubt saving her little life.

Anne and Gilbert had not mentioned the identity of the kidnapper, afraid that Ruby would collapse from the shock. The Wrights refuse to let his name pass their lips – though woe betide the wretch if Fred should succumb to the fever! It is a sentiment shared by the concerned and helpful neighbours who scurry into their backyards, and their neat front gardens to cut the feathery flower heads, or dig up its roots.

'Happy to help, wish we could do more, let's hope whoever did this gets his rightful comeuppance, be sure tell your mother we're so thankful to have her back.'

It is this last wish that brings a lump to Gilbert's throat. No one pretends anymore. The cottage is not just an open secret, it is treasured, and so is Ro. Even doctors Spencer and Blair had to admit Mrs Blythe was doing an impeccable job, when they make their visit in two days later to inspect young Wright and his wound. It had cleared up wonderfully well, and yet the fever grew. It puzzled both men exceedingly and they leave the cottage arguing over which treatment they would use.

A day later the reverend is summoned. He thought it was to administer Last Rites, and couldn't have been more surprised to find Diana Barry in her best white gown, a wreath of tiny white roses like starlight in her hair.

'Diana,' Mr Allan says, kindly, 'I cannot marry the two of you until I am satisfied that Fred is in the right state of mind to agree to such a thing. Marriage is forever, dear girl, I know you are upset but I cannot in good conscience allow you to rush into this.'

'We do not have forever,' says a stout-hearted Diana, 'at least not in this life. In the little time we have left, please I beg you, Mr Allan, let me have the honour of being this man's wife.'

Fred, who had done little more than grip Diana's hand since her arrival begins shuddering, his gleaming chest that shows above the sheet, heaving up and down.

All eyes turn to him; Diana's, Mr Allan's, Ro's, while everyone else, the Wrights, the Barrys, Anne and Gilbert peer in through the window and door.

'Oh my darling, please try not to vex yourself,' Diana pleads, and falls at his bedside weeping.

'I'm not vexed,' Fred murmurs slowly, between each painful breath.

'But – but you're crying, you're shaking,' Diana babbles, her long black lashes spiked with tears.

'I'm happy,' Fred blubs, 'and why shouldn't I be? My Diana loves me.'

Diana sighs, and heedless of her parents' eyes settles her dark head next to Fred's.

'Silly boy, didn't you know? I have always loved you, Frederic. I always did. I always will.'

In the joyful days after no one can decide which miracle is the greater: Fred Wright's speedy return to health, or Mrs Barry falling on her knees in the midst of Wednesday's prayer meeting when she hears of it.

'There is a Book of Revelation in everyone's life,' she declares before the open mouthed faces of the congregation, 'and today I have read mine. My daughter has been returned to me, and the Wright's son to them, let no one and nothing keep them apart again.'


	40. Chapter 40

**_Chapter forty_**

Mr Oliver received his bills and a rollicking story from Anne – though not the one he was hoping for. Gone was any mention of the Glen St Mary kidnapping; replaced with an astonishing tale of the heroic Constable, Frederic Wright, being brought back from the brink of death by the village herbalist, Rowena Blythe. It was certainly a moving story, and hit all the right beats, but it needed another twist, one that Oliver had no compunction adding: the significant detail that Mrs Blythe was also known as Dr Lavendar.

Needless to say, the story was a sensation, and every day that August the Blythe homestead had a constant line of desperate pilgrims all the way down Newbridge Road. The hall became a hostel for the scruffy and the scrofulous. The more genteel visitor was offered respite in the Spare Room of Avonlea's finest families. And the Pyes, well used to putting on the most stylish parties with the best cakes and pastries, turned their well-appointed parlour into a tea rooms, all offering the famous Blythe herbal brews.

Ro could only shake her head in wonder, Gilbert was always laughing. And Anne? She is sleeping, right now, amid the poppies and cornflowers dancing in the long grass atop the Sunrise Garden.

In the house below is Fred, tearing down the lopsided porch Martin Rossi constructed, in readiness for the delivery to come. It's going to take two oxen to get it here, but needs must. Any house in Avonlea needs a proper sandstone step at the back door .

Gilbert delivers it, and is laughing still, as Sark makes another joke. The two men had made the journey to Nespe's land together, leaving Claudine on the shore weaving a wigwam from brush.

'Whatcha goin' to do with this ol caravan?' Sark asks, wiping his brow, the six foot slab of red sand stone finally levered into place.

'You want it?' Fred says, hopefully.

Diana thought it was charming, but all Fred sees is an eyesore squatting in the long grass growing around it, and taking up room.

'Diana wants to turn it into a chicken coop, but ah…' and he scratches the back of his head, 'I'm not sure about that.'

'You mean you're not sure how to say no to your beloved Deésse?' Gilbert grins.

'I'm sure you'd know all about that,' Fred winks, then he cocks his head to one side. 'Say, didn't Anne want to live in a caravan once, head out on adventures?'

Gilbert pats the curved walls, its paint in blisters of black and white. Inside are the two narrow beds, stripped and sagging, and the little iron stove between them. He remembers finding Anne here, how he had wrapped his arms around her middle and nuzzled into her thick red hair. And she had said that she couldn't think of anywhere she would rather live than in a little house like this, the open road before her.

He shrugs, scuffs his boots. There is no chance of that now.

'I better fetch her,' he says, buttoning up his waist coat. 'She still up there?'

Fred nods. 'Bring my fianceé down too,' he says, and takes a steadying breath. It still stuns him that he can do that, bid Diana come to him and know that she will come, with a serene smile on her face and a quick beat in her heart. 'Reckon they've forgotten the time. Party starts at seven. Your Ma can still make it, can't she, Gil? Celebratin' our engagement with our family and friends would be nothin' without Mrs Blythe.

'She'll be there, Tourt,' Gilbert replies jogging up the hill, 'not even an angry case of poison ivy can keep her away!'

Diana is approaching the crumbling brick wall when he reaches the summit, a plump finger pressed against her lips.

'I hope you haven't come up here to get her chopping dandelions. The poor girl needs a rest. She's exhausted, Gilbert,' Diana adds with a frown. 'Best you leave her sleeping, at least until the party tonight.'

'Don't worry, we'll be there,' Gilbert assures her, and after helping Diana over the wall, makes his way to the middle of the garden.

The satiny petals of a pale orange poppy are tickling against Anne's freckled cheek and she twitches and stirs and turns her head, nestling deeper into the fragrant grass.

He loves her like this, abandoned to the wilds around her; he knows this is where she belongs. Among the whispering trees and the nodding flowers, the seed heads that spangle her long loose hair, the bird that calls from the bough above.

A white bird. Gilbert knows this without looking, and he lets out a deep sigh.

'I got the message, all right, you made your point…'

He lifts his arm to shoo it away.

'Who are you talking to?' Anne says, dozily, slowly opening her eyes.

Gilbert falls on his knees beside her, brings her hand to his lips.

'You smell like a meadow,' he tells her.

Anne rolls onto her side, stretching her body out lazily before resting her head on her arm.

'If I could capture this smell…' she smiles, her grey eyes blinking slowly.

'Don't tell Ma,' Gilbert quips, lying down next to her. 'She'll be working on that next.'

'Do you think she's forgiven me yet, for making her a household name?'

Gilbert ponders this a moment as he picks a stem of timothy and pokes it between his lips. Did his mother like being famous? Certainly she enjoyed the fascinating cases, the chance to help those beyond her small circle, the times Dr Spencer and Dr Blair had come to her for advice. And she liked getting paid, of course, liked knowing she and John could secure a permanent hired man to help with the farm when Gilbert returned to school. She relished working alongside her beloved Anne too, was grateful to know her knowledge would be passed on to someone with such a magical touch. But did she like becoming more famous than her alias, Dr Lavendar? Gilbert was not so sure about that.

The matter was taken out of her hands, however, with the introduction of Blythe's Best Balm. Apparently, Mr Eggers didn't give a hoot if Gilbert made a doctor of himself or not. The Blythe name was on everyone's lips now; Curlow was already planning on tripling their production. And now that Anne was part of the Blythe family too, the owners of the Echo were even more desperate to get her back.

Anne told Oliver she would think about it, though she never seemed to find the time. Not when her husband is kissing her like that, touching her like that, unbuttoning her like that…

Her chemise is up round her armpits, corset open like a book, his tongue darts into her bellybutton, then he rests his bearded cheek on it.

'Hello, hello?' he murmurs.

'Hello,' Anne answers back.

Gilbert lifts his head, his hazel eyes glinting in the low afternoon sun.

'No, I meant... that is, I was saying hello to –'

'I know who you were saying hello to, Blythe. Was that who you were talking to before?'

The question is a natural one, logical too. If he has questions who better to ask than his own child. Who needs him more, who is least likely to tell him only what he wants to hear? Even Anne does that now. He knows she doesn't want him to go, and make no mistake he is going, and in less than a week. But she doesn't try to stop him, nor do his parents, or his chums. He has to go back to Redmond in September, of course he must go.

He draws a finger along her bare skin, belly falling and rising, milky white.

'What's it like?'

'Are you asking me or the little pearl?'

He sidles up alongside her, weaves his fingers with hers.

'Seriously love, what is it like, growing our baby inside you?

What to say?

To the scientist she would say it is exhausting, she had never realised something so small could take so much of her stamina to grow. How her mouth could suddenly taste an odour, her nose could smell a sound. And her breasts, how they swelled, her skin so tight the blue of her veins showed through.

To the herbalist she would say mint was certainly her favoured herb, followed by fresh dug ginger root, eucalypt tinctures, lavender oil... The latter felt marvellous good on her nipples (as did Gilbert's insistent mouth.)

To the husband she would say she luxuriated in the sensation of her womb slowly stretching, her hair darkening, her senses deepening, and her dreams. That she revelled in the thought she would become heavy, round, sway backed, and ripe. Till her body all but burst out, I am love, I am love, I am love…

And to the twenty year old man who lies next to her, whose brow bears a scar that will never fade? To him she would say she is excited and scared. That the birth to come is all consuming, and other times the pregnancy is forgotten altogether, as she clambers up trees seeking lichens and moss, and forgets to sleep because the story she is writing will not let her go. That she is sad this pregnancy will be marred by gossip, raised eyebrows, and disappointed looks. And the next minute she is brimming with tears at the joy she feels to be given such a blessing.

It is this last answer she gives him.

The answer is like a balm. Nothing else could soothe Gilbert's fears; she anoints him like a king.

'Please,' he says hoarsely, 'I have to love you… let me love you now…'

'Oh but... mmm,' she utters, as he shifts himself between her legs and slowly grinds against her. 'You're making it impossible to say no...'

Gilbert's shirt is now half way over his head. His face pops out and he frowns.

'Now Mrs Blythe why would you want to say no?'

The shirt goes flying, landing in the branch of the maple tree laying dappled shade over their bodies. Then his hand is at the soft, bare skin above her stocking, and higher to her cotton drawers. Anne's hips rise to meet his deft, insistent touch and she scrunches her grey eyes tight.

'We shouldn't – we can't. What if Fred and Diana come looking for us?'

She receives a cheeky grin in response.

'I'm fairly confident in predicting that looking for us is the last thing Fred is wanting to do. As I recall,' he continues, unbuttoning his trousers, secretly pleased at the way Anne's eyes have suddenly widened as he frees himself, 'he was wanting Diana's opinion on what size bed she thought would fit in the master room.'

'Was he now?'

Anne loosens the ribbon at the her waist and so that Gilbert can peel down her drawers. The touch of cool grass kisses against her bottom.

'Oh Gilbert, hurry,' she moans, arching her back again.

Gilbert duly obliges, it's impossible not to when she feels like this, like a hot, slick vortex that grips him tight and sucks him further and further. Within two minutes he knows it is useless to fight it, within five he has to give in. It is bliss not to pull away anymore, feel the heels of her white feet kneading his buttocks and he makes one final thrust. To give this up, to go back to school, why was he doing that again; what possible reason could he have for leaving her loving arms?

He is still asking himself that at the party that evening, when he Anne arrives in Ephraim White's cart, in her a new white dress, pale as moonlight and fresh as a spring morning. The empurpled sky has already given way to a deep velvety blue. The four tier cake Mrs Wright made, and the five tier cake Mrs Barry had ordered, are down to crumbs on the plates.

Constable Wright is enjoying the exquisite pleasure of holding Miss Barry's dimpled hand on top of the table for all to see. He stands up now to shake the hand of the fine gentleman that approaches him. The fellow doffs his hat and thanks him for a splendid evening.

'I appreciate you comin', Mr Irving, sir, and especially you lettin' the Sunrise Garden to us. Apricots, peaches and cherries, that what my Diana wants to grow. Reckon they'll do well on that slope.'

'It will take some time to get such trees established,' Paul says, replacing his hat.

'I've got time,' Fred says, a little wistfully. 'Diana's goin' to get her first class licence and I'm taking the posting in Carmody. First time they've ever had a lawman. I'm lookin' forward to makin' my mark. By the time three years is up, I should have our little house ready for my wife, and we'll have the beginnings of a real fine harvest.'

'And a fine life, too, Constable Wright. Thank you for inviting me, I had forgotten the beauty of Avonlea.'

As he says this he glances about him, with a wide and searching stare, over trestle tables strewn with sticky glasses, and half drunk punch warm and syrupy in the bowls. His gentle blue eyes finally rest upon the curly haired matron in a light summer gown.

John Blythe fits his fiddle under his chin, and the first sonorous notes of the first slow dance of the night winds its way through the air.

''scuse me, won't you?' Fred says, grabbing Diana by the hand. 'Been waiting for Mr Blythe to play something like this all night. Gotta take your chances when they come.'

'Indeed,' says Paul, and he turns from Ro and gives the happy couple a smile.

Gilbert returns with Paul's horse and waits at the edge of the lawn.

'I shall watch your career with interest, young Blythe,' he tells him, before taking his mount. 'Whatever you set out to do, young man, I believe you will meet with success.'

Gilbert wishes he could ask him, just what he thought success was. The way this learned, wealthy, educated man was looking right now, anyone would think he was reluctant to leave this tiny village on the edge of a tiny Island.

He looks about him as Paul Irving trots off, at the Pyes arguing at one table and the Sloanes studying their pocket watches. The Andrews giving disapproving stares at the slow dancers dancing a little too closely, and the Wrights finishing off the last of the cake. Micah Sloane is dancing with Clarissa, Pamela Andrews with a gentleman who came to the cottage hoping to save his two front teeth. Diana is floating in her Fred's strong arms. He doesn't even limp now, and will be back at work in another week.

When the finely dressed gentleman dancing with the gold haired girl decides to return to England no one seems to know. It is clear Herbert Spencer worships the ground Ruby walks on. But how does she feel about him?

After the slow dance finishes Gilbert taps his shoulder. Herbert bows out immediately, though his usually obliging smile is just a smidgeon less obliging.

'Gilbert Blythe,' Ruby simpers, 'I can't remember the last time you danced with me.'

'At Queens, wasn't it? You taught me the Two Bob two-step –'

'I taught you lots of things,' she quips.

Gilbert twirls her round the garden as his father starts up another melancholy tune. He had used up his repertoire of jigs and reels when the night was young and Mr Irving seemed determined to ask every woman to dance. It is simple coincidence, surely, that John starts in on the slow songs once that gentleman had gone.

'You did,' says Gilbert, pulling her close.

She is tiny in comparison to Anne, he has to bend down when he whispers. His breath flustering her carefully coiffed ringlets as he murmurs in her ear.

'Now I think it's my turn to give something to you.'

'Oh yes,' Ruby's eyebrows arch, 'and what would that be?'

'Just a bit of advice.' Ruby looks askance. 'That necklace,' says Gilbert, his gaze dropping to the little pink heart circling Ruby's throat, 'it doesn't suit you.'

Even in the low light of the lanterns dangling from the trees Gilbert can tell Ruby is blushing, and not in some becoming fashion, but furiously and hot.

'How – how dare you!' she hisses.

The glare is very Anne-like, but unlike Anne, Ruby does not try to get away. This is a village dance after all, folks might be watching, and Ruby is used to them watching her.

Gilbert guides her expertly between the other couples till they stop by the far edge of the garden.

'I dare because I want you to be happy, Ruby Gillis. I'm not going to go along with this stupid story anymore.'

'I don't know what you're talking about!'

'Davy didn't give you that token –'

'You don't know that!'

'Yes I do. And you know something else? Everyone at this dance knows it, too.'

Ruby, the golden girl, the princess, the performer, hangs her head in shame. Her body goes limp with the effort of all her pretending, even her pompadour wilts. Then she feels a hand at her chin, and she looks into his eyes. And he is smiling at her, her oldest chum, giving her his Gilbertiest smile.

'Don't you ever hang your head on his account, Ruby, just take that token off and –'

'What?' Ruby's blue eyes are wide with doubt and fear.

Would the rest of Avonlea still love her, accept her, if she admits she is not Davy's wife?

 _'What?_ ' says Gilbert, incredulous that she is still pretending not to know.

He places his hands on Ruby's shoulders and turns her around to face the crowd. They're all dancing and laughing and feasting and gossiping, all of them but one. Herbert hasn't taken his eyes off the two of them, and he stands in the midst of the party now, his crisp white gloves curled up in two neat fists, as he watches the local Romeo make off with his Juliet.

Herbert's dark eyes lock on Ruby's as she spins around, while Gilbert removes the necklace from her neck. He drops it into his pocket and gives Ruby a little push, and she glides toward her destiny like a little boat to its harbour.

'I saw what you did just then,' Anne murmurs, coming up behind him, 'you set her free from Davy for good. How did you know the necklace wasn't from him?'

'It was from me,' Gilbert explains. 'I bought it for you, but I lost it somehow.'

'For me?' Anne slips her hand into his trouser pocket and regards the heart anew. 'Yes, this is definitely something you would give.'

'Do you want it?'

Anne shakes her head. 'I don't need a token,' she says, her grey eyes dark with love. 'You've already given me the most precious gift of all.'

That night he walks her the long way home, down the shadowy perfumed paths of old and up to the Rossi's big green door. Ephraim White can be heard from the west gable window humming the tune he danced to with Jane Andrews.

'I'd invite you in but...' Anne grins, her grey eyes cast above.

'No, of course, get some sleep, my girl,' says Gilbert.

He lays a kiss on her forehead, and another on the sash at her waist, then he stands with his hands in his pockets as she closes the door and walks upstairs.

An idea grips him for a moment, to go to the side of the house and climb the cherry tree that grows outside Anne's window; try to catch another glimpse of her as she closes the curtains for the night.

But he doesn't, he turns and strolls down the drive, so lost in his own happiness he doesn't hear the sound of another set of boots crunching along the drive. It's only when they sound like they are right behind him that he pivots round, the dreamy smile on his lips twisting into a frown.

'Davy?'

He ducks as a fist comes flying, then thinking quickly charges at Davy's gut with his shoulder, tipping him to the ground.

'You ever been in a fair fight?' Gilbert snarls, glowering above him.

'Fair!' Davy spits at him, 'when have you even been fair to me!'

He thinks about scrambling up again, but one look at Gilbert and he decides to stay where he is.

'Go on, put the boot in,' Davy whines, 'kick me when I'm down.'

'I'd rather step in pig manure than touch you,' says Gilbert, coldly.

It has just occurred to him that Davy came running from Green Gables, he must have been waiting for Anne to come home. The thought makes his blood run cold.

'What are you doing here, the Wrights will skin you alive if they catch you?'

Davy sits up and spits into the lilies that line the drive. His hair lays lank and greasy over his eyes, which look red and sore, even in the dim light of a crescent moon. Has he been crying?

'I came to fetch my wife!' he says, and gives Gilbert a piercing glare.

'Ruby's not your wife and you know it.'

'And Anne ain't yours, you hypocrite.'

Davy stands up slowly, as though his bones were made of chalk, hunching into his filthy sweater, reeking of sweat and rum.

'You think I care about your opinion of me – _what_ are you doing here?' Gilbert repeats.

'Green Gables is my home too, you know. I got more right to be here than you. You took _everything_ from me. My home, my best friend, my girl... my daughter –'

Gilbert had meant to keep a cool distance, but at the mention of May he takes a step closer.

'Don't you think about trying to take May again, you're lucky you're not in chains right now.'

The lilies receive another wad of spit. 'You can't stop me, Gilbert. A child needs her father –'

'Like you needed _yours?_ ' Gilbert retorts. 'Martin tried to give you everything and you threw it in his face. If you take May, if you hand her over to some shiftless nursemaid while you sail round the world, she'll grow up to hate you, and you know it.'

He takes another step toward him, his voice ragged and low.

'May is deaf, did you know that, that little girl can't hear. That's why I took her to the Glen, I was trying to help her.'

'And _I_ haven't helped people?' Davy splutters, his eyes in narrow slits. ' _I_ rowed out into a storm to save those men when no one else would dare. _I_ risked my life!'

'And you broke everyone's heart. Your father's, your sister's, Ruby's, Anne's. Now you want to hurt May, take her away from the only family she's known so you can – what? Get your own back, like some spoiled child. Be a man, Davy, for the first time in your life think of someone other than yourself!'

'And how am I supposed to do that?' says Davy stubbornly.

'You don't know?' Gilbert shakes his head. Own up to your responsibilities, he wants to shout, show folks they can trust you again.

He doesn't say any of these things because Davy begins to cry. Hot tears of self pity paint clean lines down his grubby face. He rubs at his nose and sniffs.

'I get it, don't worry, I get it,' he croaks, 'you all just want me to leave...'

'Davy, that's not what I said.'

'You made it perfectly clear. I'm not welcome round here anymore.'

Davy stands there stooped and defeated, his infamous smile small and pleading. He is expecting Gilbert to take it back, insist that he stay, promise to smooth things over for him till things calm down again.

Gilbert had been blocking his way, and now he steps aside.

'Go then,' he says simply, 'don't let me get in your way.'

'Sorry, what?' says Davy, beads of sweat appear on his face and his brow crumples in confusion.

'Leave,' says Gilbert, and he opens the gate. 'That's what cowards do.'


	41. Chapter 41

_**Chapter 41**_

He works furiously for the next few days, though he knows this will annoy her. Charlie Sloane has already left, eager to begin his sophomore year, and Anne knows Gilbert can't leave it much longer. He told her he had some last minute things he needed to get done, and Anne believes it. They have been so busy this summer she often wonders how she and Ro will manage without him.

It's a delicious challenge to have, however. Anne thrives on the work. The little stone cottage is brimful of heat and steam and odours, woodsy ones, leafy ones, the bitter and the sweet. The clatter of jars being boiled in the enormous copper pot, the soft scratch of her pen writing down notes and recipes in Ro's big book.

Claudine is coming tomorrow to help her with some further translations. Anne is working on another story, about the bird and the medicine tree. She can see the bird in her mind's eye, though Nespe never described it. Something small with bright inquisitive eyes, its plumage white as May's napkins drying on the line in the sun.

Tap tap, goes May, banging a clothespin doll against the flagstone floor. Tap, tap, tap.

Without realising she is doing it, Anne smooths back the flossy strands of hair by her ears, and fluffs out her apron. May's tapping often precedes someone knocking upon the cottage door. It's as though the little girl can feel approaching footsteps through the earth.

Anne scoops May onto her hip and parts the faded curtain. No, it isn't Gilbert (where is he?) it's Laurie waving a letter at her. Before she can open it, Ro arrives, back from her forage in the untouched bit of woods near the Birch Path. Her basket brimful of Joe Pye and lobelia, sage and wild garlic.

The latter makes Anne wince and waving her letter at Ro, she takes herself to the oak tree outside, and sits against the trunk. Her grey eyes widen with excitement, and just as quickly narrow. The letter is from Marilla – shouldn't she and Martin be on the steamer by now?

Gilbert is delaying his return to Kingsport until he can speak with Marilla and explain his intentions. But how much longer will Anne have to wait before she can wrap herself in Marilla's arms again? What Marilla decides to do with those arms once she hears the news, Anne isn't sure: squeeze the life out of her, push her away? Whatever her reaction Anne's wedding is set now, two days after the Rossis are due back. A small celebration in the Blythe's verdant orchard and only the Blythes, the Rossis, the Wrights and Diana in attendance. The rest of Avonlea will no doubt speculate that such a modest wedding means Anne is pregnant – and the rest of Avonlea will eventually discover they are absolutely right.

'We'll just keep you tucked away, working and writing,' Ro kept assuring her. 'You put Avonlea on the map with your story, my dear, folks might not be so quick to judge as you think.'

It wasn't the thought of being judged that worried her, Anne was used to that. It was what Ro had said about being kept tucked away. Just the thought of it made Anne's legs twitch restlessly, she wasn't made to be tucked away; she was made to roam...

'Gilbert!' she exclaims, tucking the letter into her pocket, 'wait, what is that on your face?'

Gilbert rubs at his cheek as he strides through the opening in the hedge, at the red paint he knows is smudged there.

'Come see,' he says, his hand held out to her.

Anne frowns. 'I don't understand.'

'Just come,' he says again, then, 'keep your apron on. The paint is still a bit wet.'

'Paint?' Anne says, and ducks through the hedge with him.

No more words come for quite a while after that.

Her hand goes to her mouth, which gapes widely with surprise, while a small tear trickles down her cheek. The little caravan that stood in Fred's new property stands between the apples trees, gleaming and bright. Gone is the faded, blistering paint, replaced with an emerald green. There is a round window at the back painted buttercup yellow, the little door at the front a deep and sticky red. A sturdy bay mare is hitched up and snorting proudly in a new harness of leather and brass. So this is what has kept Gilbert so busy? Anne can barely breathe she is so surprised.

'It's... it's...'

'Come inside, sweetheart,' says Gilbert, taking her hand. 'It gets even better.'

He steps back proudly and watches her step over the traces and clamber up inside. His heart about to burst from his chest as he hears her heartfelt, 'Ohhhhh!'

The little iron stove is near the door now, and a squat blue cupboard next to that. A large enamel basin is hanging upon the gently curved wall, freshly papered with tiny leaves, darting birds, and pomegranates bursting open. Opposite this are two armchairs, covered in a velvet of soft sage green. Between them is a half moon table of waxed larchwood, a brand new lantern and a bowl of long matches sitting atop it, companionably. What catches Anne's eye, however, is what lays at the back. Nestled beneath the round window is a cosy double bed, Gilbert's green and yellow quilt tucked over it.

He leaps in behind her, unable to hide his excitement.

'See here,' he says, pulling out one of two large drawers under the bed. 'A trundle bed, for our little pearl. And here,' he adds, 'another drawer for clothes and towels and napkins and whatever else a baby needs. I thought we could tuck a small closet here,' he says, pointing to the space between the armchair and the bed. I haven't been able to find something the right size, but I couldn't wait anymore... Anne?' he says, darting round to face her now. 'What's the matter, don't you like it?'

He doesn't get the next words out as Anne tackles him onto the bed. The pillowcases smell of lavender and rosemary, Ro must have helped him with that. The little round window, that would have been John's work. The wallpaper and the armchair choices had to be Diana. And there, above the lantern, Anne only now notices, Matthew's little Constable print of a blue and billowy sky.

'Oh Gilbert, this is... this is...'

She rolls on top of him and lays kisses all over his face, a smudge red smearing her chin.

Gilbert lies back, giving into the pleasure. It is over, he has done it. The thought of doing exactly what he is doing now, was the one thing that got him through. Trying to keep this secret from her, trying to source just the right furnishings in the shortest amount of time, trying to think up fresh excuses for why he couldn't make it for a picnic lunch or a late evening stroll. It was worth it, of course it was, and again his chest swells with pride. He had given Anne her little house, he had kept his word.

'It's beautiful, it's perfect, but oh!' Anne sighs, 'I wish we had more time to enjoy it.'

'That from Marilla?' says Gilbert, sitting up.

He smooths out the crumpled envelope that had fallen from her pocket, and studies the stamp, expecting to see an English postmark. The Rossis were supposed to set sail from Southhampton last week, and were due on Sunday evening.

Gilbert thought if he could show Marilla that he had already provided a house for Anne it might go someway to allay her fears; show her that he could take care of her girl, that he loved Anne with all of his heart.

Marilla would still skin him alive, of course, but if Gilbert knows anything about himself, he knows that he can heal.

Anne takes the letter from him and curls up on their bed. Her cheeks have suddenly gone as red as their front door.

'It is,' she says, shyly, 'Martin wrote it for her.'

'I can tell,' Gilbert jokes, noting all the ink blots.

'I think they had a difficult time writing this,' Anne admits. 'Here, read this bit,' and she passes him a page.

Gilbert sits up next to her, crossing his long legs.

'Starting here?' he asks, putting his paint splattered finger on the phrase "unexpected news."

Anne nods, looking for all the world like someone who is trying to swallow down a laugh.

 _...just about to leave, the trunks were packed and our passage to England booked, when Dora ran back outside, and declared she had some news. Soren appeared next, looking sheepish as you please, and placed his arm round his wife..._

Gilbert reads on silently, his brows wriggling as he does so, then he looks up and blinks.

'Dora's expecting?'

'Ah yes,' Anne says, her laugh very nearly out now.

'Why couldn't Marilla tell us this when she gets home, why is she delaying her trip?'

'It might have something to do with _when_ Dora expects the happy event,' Anne deadpans. 'Keep reading.'

Gilbert frowns now, and returns to the letter.

' _December!_ But that means –'

'That means we now know why Miss Dora was so keen to marry Mr Blomqvist before she turned nineteen.'

'They did seem in a bit of a hurry,' Gilbert recalls, his teeth flashing in a lazy smile. 'And is Soren still alive?'

'Marilla didn't say. But the fact she wants to stay till the baby is born would suggest she and Martin took the news well.'

'Little Dora,' Gilbert muses, falling back on the pillow. 'Who knew?'

'Not even Martin, it seems. She kept her bump behind her shawl, determined to hide it from them until they day they were due to leave, when Dora suddenly decided to couldn't keep it from them anymore. They're going to stay on in Trintorp until March, when the sea ice has melted again.

'March? But that's when –'

'I know,' Anne's bright face clouds over. 'Even though I had doubts about how Marilla would take the news, I never thought I would bring our baby into the world without her. I had only just made peace with the fact that you would be in Kingsport preparing for exams when our Pearl is due to arrive. Diana will be at Queens, and Ro is so busy with the cottage and May and–'

She sounds forlorn, resigned to being alone and taking care of this by herself. Gilbert had been so flush with pride at his humble offering he hadn't even told her what mattered most. This was far more significant than a pretty yellow window hung with honeysuckle curtains, and a thickly woven rug on the floor. More crucial than the blue and white jug, the gargantuan conch, and the books – his and hers – on the shelf. He had thought long and hard about of all of it, tried to imagine all the dreams in her heart. Yet he had forgotten the most important surprise of all.

He gets up on his knees, his curly head almost touching the ceiling.

'Anne, I.. I have something to ask you?'

'Gilbert, you look worried, I thought Dora's news would make you laugh.'

'Forget the letter for a moment, I wish I had said this before you opened it. I want you to know,' he says, his hazel eyes brimful of love, 'I was always going to say this to you, even before I knew your folks were delaying their trip home. I made up my mind the night of the engagement party, maybe I should have said something then, but I thought, well I thought if I showed you I could give you a home...'

'Blythe,' Anne cuts in, her grey eyes tinged with green, 'if you don't come clean this instant I'll –'

'I'm not going back to Redmond,' he blurts, 'I want to be with you. Just hear me out, I have a small income now from the Balm, and Sark wants to go into business with me. He says with his knowledge of where to find plants and my knowledge about how to prepare them, we could make more than just wart creams, we could create something astonishing. Travel round the Island, and the rest of Canada too and...' Gilbert pauses, alarmed at the realisation that Anne does not look as pleased as he thought.

'So you're still leaving,' she says quietly, regarding the caravan anew. It was perfect for life on the road.

'That's what I wanted to ask you,' says Gilbert, his heart beating fast.

He knows he shouldn't feel this way, but it makes him want to cry to know that Anne would be bereft without him. She loves him, she truly does, she wants to be by his side. Knowing this makes the next words so easy to say they almost fly from his tongue.

'Anne,' he murmurs, cupping her face, 'will you... will you come with me? Will you marry me and come with me and live with me in this little house?'

'Oh!' Anne cries, 'Oh, oh, oh, oh!'

She clasps her hands under her chin, tears shining in her eyes.

'Yes, Gilbert, yes! Oh yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! I will come with you! You've made me – oh but this... it's a dream come true!'

He wraps his arms tight around her, their hearts thudding in their chests.

'So Anne likes the idea then?' says Ro poking her head inside, little May burbling in her arms.

She ducks inside the caravan, Anne and Gilbert leap from the bed.

'I shall miss you two,' she says, tearily.

'But what about all the work at the cottage? You're run off your feet as it is,' Anne says.

Rowena settles into one of the armchairs and strokes May's hair with her scarred and mangled hand.

'Work'll wait,' she says softly, 'All I ask is that you savour this time together - _and_ bring me back every interesting specimen you find! I confess it'll be hard without you, I'll be counting the days till you both return. If only Dora was coming back with Marilla on Sunday...'

Anne laughs, and digs out her letter again.

'Oh, yes. About that...'

...

Marilla and Martin return to Green Gables just two days before the caravan rolls into the Blythe's orchard. The driver is presently white with panic as he leads the bay mare into the barn. His wife has been having contractions for two days now, mild niggles in the small of her back. They had twenty miles to cover before they reached Avonlea when her waters broke with a gush.

She leans against the cottage door, breathing through another rush. John has taken May to the Gillis' before going to fetch Marilla. Rowena gets the water on the boil, ordering her son to tear up strips of linen as he dashes through the cottage door.

Happy to be doing something, Gilbert washes his hands and sets to work. Rowena will need the hot cloths to hold against Anne's back and belly to counteract the pains, and later when she is pushing the baby out, to soften the opening so that she doesn't tear. Tearing must be avoided at all costs, once the skin is broken that's when trouble starts.

'I can help you with that,' Anne says to him, a crooked smile on her lips.

'Anne Blythe, get out of those dirty travelling clothes and get yourself some rest,' Ro tuts. 'You should have been back here weeks ago, before the confinement began.'

'We got snowed in,' Anne explains.

She gets no further as another contraction builds up.

'Are you having another rush, dear?' Ro queries, trying not to sound as worried as she feels.

The last one was only a minute ago, if it keeps going this quickly she'll be wanting to push very soon.

'Gilbert, strip the bed,' Ro commands, taking the cloth from his hands. 'We'll need arnica for the shock,' she adds, quietly, 'this baby might arrive any minute.'

'So soon,' Gilbert's face goes whiter still, 'what makes you think that?'

Ro nods her head in Anne's direction.

'Oh!' she cries, 'I have to push!'

Anne falls to her knees, resting her head on her folded arms, and her arms on top of the bed, the chill March wind whistling under the door. Rowena gives up trying to unbutton Anne's shirtwaist and pulls down her sodden drawers.

'What should I do, should I go?' Gilbert asks his mother.

He has read up on several accounts of how to deliver a baby. They all covered different problems and outcomes, but they were all agree on one thing: when it happens the only man who is allowed to be in the room is the doctor.

'You're not going anywhere, not till Marilla arrives. Is that water hot? Then dip the cloths in, I don't care if you scold yourself, I need them now.'

His mother's voice is calmly assertive, Anne is focused and alert. Gilbert mutters to himself: I can do this, I can do this, I can do this...

He plunges the cloths in the pot, wringing them out and handing them to his mother, who wads them up and holds them between Anne's legs.

'I know you want to push, Anne dear, but try to pant through it.'

'Ohhhh, my baby, she wants to come out, I have to push!' Anne groans.

Ro lifts Anne's skirts up round her hips, and lays her ear against her back.

'You're doing wonderfully well,' she croons, 'I promise you can push real soon.'

She then turns to Gilbert, her face impatient, as he realises he is supposed to hand her another hot wet cloth.

She sets it against Anne's taut skin, who sighs with the brief relief. Gilbert wants to ask if he can carry Anne onto the bed, when she lets out such a bellow his ears start ringing.

'I have to push, please I have to push right now!'

'Yes, Anne, yes, it's time. Push girl, push with all of your heart!'

Gilbert squats by the fire, another cloth dripping from his hand, as he watches Anne shake all over with the effort of it all.

What has he done to her, this doesn't seem right, he is afraid she is going to split in two, and swears he will never touch her again. Then it's over, Anne's head slumps and tries to catch her breath.

'Gil, are you there?'

It is the first time she has been aware of him since her labour began in earnest.

'Yes, oh sweetheart, I'm right here.'

'Our baby is coming, Gilbert,' she says softly, reaching out to him. 'Our baby is on the way...'

He tells her yes, he realises this, but his voice is drowned out as a bone deep sound emerges from Anne's throat.

'Try not to push, try not to push, I can see the baby's head, oh Anne, it's covered in dark brown hair. Now dear, make little panting breaths.' Ro makes short shallow puffs, as though she is going through this herself. 'Dear girl, you're doing wonderfully, the head is almost out!'

Gilbert had been mopping Anne's face, and wonders if he should look, but before he can make up his mind Anne screws up her face and Rowena instructs her to push again.

Anne does not need telling, and with one last deep groan, the baby shoots into Rowena's waiting arms.

'It's a girl, oh thank the Lord! A perfect little girl!'

Ro sobs, and signals for Gilbert to pass her one of the towels she had warming on the rack by the fire. Gilbert expects his mother to swaddle the baby tenderly and is surprised at the rough way she rubs the towel over the wrinkled, creamy body; wiping her eyes, nose and lips as though she was blotting a stain.

'There!' she says after snipping through a rubbery looking cord. She passes the infant to Gilbert. 'Hold her against the warmth of your chest.'

Gilbert studies the strange little bundle. Her eyes are wide and grey, and her mouth opens and closes as she tastes the air for the first time. It's a baby, it's his baby, she exists, she is in the world. He wants to hold her, but surely Anne should see her first. The little girl is so tiny she fits against his forearm, and he carefully, oh so carefully, holds her out for Anne to see.

'Pearl, you're here, you're finally here,' Anne murmurs, and a smile Gilbert has never seen before blooms on her face. A mother's smile, full of tenderness and fierce protection and unconditional love. 'Oh, let me hold her –'

'I need you to wait a little longer, Anne. I must check the progress of the afterbirth.'

The afterbirth, of course. Gilbert had read dozens of passages about the mechanisms of birth, but he had completely forgotten about this part. The delivery of the afterbirth was almost as important as the delivery of the baby. Only when that was out, whole and unmarred, could Ro be sure that Anne was in no danger of haemorrhage or puerperal fever.

'Oh, I have to push!' Anne bursts out in surprise and sticks her bottom high in the air.

Ro places a basin under her, and feels about between Anne's legs. At first she frowns then her eyebrows shoot up, as she sends a telling glance to Gilbert.

'Pass me another towel quick!'

'Oh-oh-ohhhhhh!' Anne moans, her forehead pressed against the bed, as her daughter makes her very first cry.

'It's coming, oh my goodness!' Ro cries out. 'A boy, you have a little boy!'

'Twins?' Anne croaks, while Gilbert looks on disbelieving, at a curled up infant with startling red hair.

'You two never do things by halves, do you?' Ro says, and bursts into laughter as the baby boy pees all over her.

...

Their wedding might have been small, but they made up for it at the christening. Everyone in Avonlea, Jo Blake and his father, Mr Keats and Mrs Captain, Josephine Barry and Mr Oliver, Paul Irving, Sam Sark, Claudine, Uncle David, Aunt Jen, Eggers and Curlow all came to attend.

The girl was baptised Marilla Diana though she would never be known by any other name but Pearl. The boy was given the name Rowan John, and it suited him so well folks forgot his last name was Blythe.

'Ooh, let me hold Rowan John,' Diana pleads, scooping him up to her bosom, 'he's the most beautiful boy in the world.'

'The most beautiful boy until we have a boy,' Fred adds, chucking the chubby lad under his chin.

'Ten boys!' Diana laughs, as Fred almost chokes.

Pale April sun bursts through the clerestory windows in bright white shafts of light.

'It looks like God,' says Laurie, and tries to catch it in his hands.

When the warm light hits Marilla's upturned face she smiles. There would be no need for scurrying about for umbrellas, the April shower had ceased. Though she is glad she asked her husband to go home before the crowd arrived at Green Gables, to make sure the house is warm.

Martin Rossi was a good man, and had been an unexpected source of wisdom when Anne's news came quick on the heels of Dora's.

'Those girls walked their own paths,' Martin had told her, 'we can't simply call 'em back. No use tryin' to make 'em into something they are not. I did that to my Davy, and I vow I shall never do it again.'

What could Marilla do but agree? Oh she could judge, threaten, lecture the young fools about her disappointed hopes, at the way they had made life even harder for themselves. But had they? Was there a more settled, decent husband than Soren? A more doting and determined father than Gilbert?

She catches his scent as he walks up to her, a sharp whiff of lavender, and the milky sweet smell of one of the babies.

'Mrs Rossi – Marilla?' he says shyly, and places his hand on her shoulder. 'Would you like to hold my girl?'

As he lowers Pearl into Marilla's arms she leans her face close to his.

'And you hold mine, Gilbert Blythe. You hold her close as you can.'

Gilbert looks across the church to the radiant woman standing in the shaft of light, her red hair aglow. She catches his eye with her luminous grey ones, and sends him a silent smile. His heart beats faster the way it always does, and the vow he made never to touch again melts like snow in the sun.

'I promise you,' he says, softly, 'I will never let her go.'

...

 **Ten years later...**

They run in two lines down the hot fine sand, the boys against the girls. Pearl thinks this is unfair. Rowan John is carrying Samuel on his shoulders, and little Lavender can hardly run at all.

'Come on!' Pearl urges, clasping tight on Lavender's chubby hand.

'We'll catch them,' Mama vows, and scooping Lavender under her arm she races out ahead.

The shoreside visitors to Four Winds shake their head at this display. For such a respected family they really were unruly. Not that anyone would say so to their faces. He was a famous botanist, and she had written that book, The Collected Tales of Canada – even the Prime Minister owned a copy.

There was much excitement when they moved into Glen St Mary. The old Doctor's widow was in her eighties now, and doted on the Blythe brood. She was waiting by the finish line, a fancy handkerchief in her hand, egging on Rose-Alba and Matty who at five and six, came up at the rear.

Pearl turned her head to see where Rose-Alba was, just beyond her mother's skirts, and knew the race was lost. Matty would get there before her, the boys were going to win.

Then just before they get to the line, Papa blocks Mama's way and when she tries to dodge him, throws her over his great big shoulder. Mama squeals and then Lavender squeals and he tucks her up under his arm, and he carries them both – Papa really is very strong – up to the finish line.

Pearl is bent and panting, and pokes out her tongue at Rowan John.

Her brother has already forgotten the race and settling Samuel in Aunty Jen's arms, scuttles off to the rocks to look for anemones. Matty scoots after him, little Lavender starts to cry. She is not allowed to go out to the rocks until she is older, and her bottom lips begins to wobble, until Aunty Jen pulls out a plum from one of her pockets and offers it to her. Now Rose-Alba wants one, or would she rather see what the boys are up to? Or perhaps she can find out what her lovely Mama is drawing in the sand?

Mama runs barefoot, the sea spray drenching her skirts. The big stick of driftwood in her hand digging words into the damp sand.

Papa watches her closely, then he grabs her in his arms and twirls her round until they fall onto a soft white bank.

'Are you sure?' he says.

'Positive,' she answers, 'are you ready for number seven?'

'Do you really need to ask, he responds, 'don't you know what you mean to me?'

The waves wash over Anne's words before Pearl and Rose-Alba can read them. But they can watch while their Papa writes something out, in his tall and loopy script.

'Come Rose-Alba, sound out the letters, see if you can make them out.'

'D? No P, yes P,' she utters, slowly, her hazel eyes darkening with a deep concentration.

'It says Papa,' Pearl interrupts, 'see? P-A-P-A. Now what word will he write next?'

'Mama?' Rose-Alba guesses, Pearl shakes her dark curly head.

'A good guess, Rosie,' Gilbert says encouragingly, and gives his little daughter a wink.

Anne stands up and shakes out her skirts, then reads the words out loud.

'Papa loves Mama,' she recites, and laughs. Mama is always laughing.

'Papa loves Mama, Papa loves Mama!' Rose-Alba cries and runs off to tell her brothers, who have left the rocks and returned to blanket where Aunty Jen sits, in hopes of a plum of their own.

'Does he?' says Mama, and sends out a look that always makes Papa act strange. His eyes go all goldy and his mouth goes all grinny and he pulls her into his arms. She falls back into the sand again, the stick flying into the air. Pearl catches it, but her parents don't see, they are kissing _again!_

Pearl carries the stick to the end of the sentence and adds a word of her own.

'You wanna plum, Pearl?' calls Rowan John, and he runs up to where she is standing.

He puts his arm round his twin and recites the words aloud.

'You're right,' he mutters, eyeing his parents, and adds his plum pit to make a full stop.

'What's she right about, what's she right about?' Matty wants to know.

Pearl screws up her freckled nose.

'Papa loves Mama _CONSTANTLY.'_

 **...**

 **THE END**


End file.
